


the future starts so slow

by heavydirtysoldier



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Political Animals
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Captain America: The First Avenger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 16:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13035339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavydirtysoldier/pseuds/heavydirtysoldier
Summary: Steve was his soul. His past, present, and future. And he was Steve’s. He was seventy years too late, but he’d live through a million lifetimes if that meant he’d be with him in the end.T.J. never believed in second chances, but this sure did feel like one.





	the future starts so slow

**Author's Note:**

> alrighty, folks. Here it is. After two grueling years of procrastination and 20,000+ words, I have finally finished it. 
> 
> i'd like to say thank you to [fireboltinsky4](http://fireboltinsky4.tumblr.com) for betaing this fic for me and helping me through the whirlwind of ideas in my brain. 
> 
> the title of the story comes from the theme song of Political Animals: "Future Starts Slow" by The Kills. you don't have to watch the show to understand the story, but it will help with knowing certain characters and who's who. and I'll be giving you a warning now, if you haven't watched Political Animals or are planning to (and you should because it's really good and sebastian stan does a fantastic job at being very sad and very gay), there will be spoilers for the show, but not a lot.
> 
> i also wasn't planning on posting this on december 16th. it was just a coincidence, and very nice coincidence, lol. it wasn't his fault, btw.
> 
> now, that all of that is out of the way, enjoy :-)

.. / .- --

 

 _I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;_  
_My friends forsake me like a memory lost:_  
_I am the self-consumer of my woes—_  
_They rise and vanish in oblivious host,_  
_Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes  
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed _

_Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,_  
_Into the living sea of waking dreams,_  
_Where there is neither sense of life or joys,_  
_But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;_  
_Even the dearest that I loved the best  
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest. _

_I long for scenes where man hath never trod_  
_A place where woman never smiled or wept_  
_There to abide with my Creator, God,_  
_And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,_  
_Untroubling and untroubled where I lie  
The grass below—above the vaulted sky._

 _—_ _I Am!_ by John Clare

 

.. / .- --

 

_Somewhere in a dream—_

 

_There's gotta be a rope or somethin'!_

_“Just go! Get outta here!"_

_No! Not without you!_

A voice, so much like his own, rang clearly in his subconscious. It was tinged with terror—pure, unadulterated fear—and just the sound of it almost made him choke on his own bile, the urge to vomit so strong and burning his throat. He could feel the raw emotion coursing through his veins like it was his own, as if this wasn’t a dream but a memory, as if he was the one screaming. Screaming across blazing fires, over the bombs that had been detonating one after the other, over the rumbles of the quaking floor beneath his feet.

He felt detached, as if he was going through an out-of-body experience that left him suspended in a realm between dreams and reality. He felt so connected with the one tearing his throat hoarse with every scream. He just didn’t know why. He didn't know where the other voice was coming from. It was deep and unshakeable, but there was still a hint of fear that was telling him otherwise. It sounded familiar, like he had heard it before. Perhaps in a dream or in another life, one that suddenly felt so long ago.

A flash of blond hair, a vision of a strong jaw set with determination, and a pair of blue eyes as clear as the sky jarred the remnants of the terror that rattled on painfully in his chest. His heart hammered against his ribcage with such ferocity that it drowned out the booming explosions that surrounded him. He was more than certain that the building was on the verge of a collapse, the warm metal in his white-knuckled grip groaning underneath his weight.

Heat radiated, hot and scorching, against his face. Burning as licks of fire surrounded him at all ends. He felt like a candle left forgotten with a flickering flame for hours on end, melting into nothing but a puddle of wax. The sensations he felt were roaring with a sense of deja vu, but he was so sure that he hadn’t experienced this before. 

A man suddenly materialized in front of him, a whirl of red, white, and blue slamming through the wall of fire and smoke. He could faintly make out the white 'A' painted on the blue helmet atop the man's head. He saw the fear on the other man's face, but the smoke continued to billow around them, a blanket of ash and unbreathable air. He knew he had to get out of there someway, somehow. The man was telling him, screaming at him to leave, but he couldn’t—he _didn’t want_ to let go of the railing he was gripping so tightly with knuckles so white from fear and desperation. The hot metal seared painfully into his skin, but he wasn't paying attention to the fact that he was most likely getting himself a third degree burn.  

It nearly pained him to see the man on the other side with nothing between them but explosions. The blazes of fire were reflected in the other man's glassy blue eyes. It would've been poetic if their lives weren’t at stake. He felt the urge to let out another scream—no, wait. He was screaming. A name lost in his subconscious, but something he knew he had said. Angry tears rolled down his cheeks as he watched the man leap across to the other side. 

He wasn't supposed to lose him. He couldn't lose him. 

Another explosion rattled the whole building, shaking him deep from his core. 

The sounds of chaos echoed into the depths of his subconscious just as the scenery began to change. The reds, oranges, and yellows of the fire surrounding him melted away in a dreamlike manner and morphed into the crisp blues and whites of a mountain packed with snow. _The Alps_ , his sleeping mind supplied.

He was standing on a ledge, the snow falling and leaving white dust on his shoulders, as he stared out into the ravine. There was a group of them, standing, crouching around a radio of some kind. It looked old. He wasn't entirely sure why they were there. All he knew was that there was a train they had to catch.

The man in red, white, and blue was back and standing next to him on that ledge. He wasn't wearing his helmet this time, and his blond hair flopped stupidly in the heavy wind. 

Blond hair. Strong jaw. Blue eyes. Something in his subconscious was telling him that this man was important. 

 _Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?_  

 _"Yeah, and I threw up?"_  

_This isn't payback, is it?_

_"Now, why would I do that?"_

Somehow, this all felt wrong. Somewhere, deep in his gut, he could tell that something bad was going to happen.

But the man's voice ... He was supposed to know who that man was, but the name was lost somewhere between the angry, red flames in the factory and the tranquil, white snow in the mountains. 

Mere minutes stretched into what felt like hours, and soon, he was zip-lining down to the train, following the man in red, white, and blue. There were men already waiting for them in the train car when they arrived, guns cocked and loaded. There was a flash of metal. A shield, slathered with a gaudy coat of red, white, blue. It looked like a damn target. They were separated. He was being shot at. The both of them were being shot at. They were together again. 

Again. 

Again. 

And, again.

 _“I had ‘im on the ropes.”_ The voice returned, and he was convinced that the words, feeling familiar yet heavy on his own tongue, were falling from his own lips.  

The rally of shots at such a close range left him sick and dizzy with exhaustion. The voice rang through the emptiness of the train, all strong and gruff with a Brooklyn accent tightly woven in its tone and inflection. It was his voice. He knew it was supposed to be his voice. He thought he had figured it all out, but he had never stepped foot in Brooklyn before. Not once in his entire life. 

He spun around just in time to see a cannon shooting something blue and something terrifying aimed directly towards him. He grabbed the discarded shield that had fallen onto the floor amidst all the fighting and held the straps with an ironclad grip, all before the cannon had been fully recharged.

But then, the inevitable happened. 

He was suddenly thrown back with a great force, the blast from the weapon sending him flying straight through a hole in the train, and he wanted to scream but the words were stuck frozen in his throat. He clung onto a chunk of metal that was already hanging so precariously off the side, the wind and snow hitting his face and the numbness prickling at his frostbitten skin. The wind whistled loudly in his ears now that he was swinging in open air.

 _“Bucky! Grab my hand!"_ Bucky… Bucky… Who the hell was Bucky?

The man in red, white, and blue was scared, that he could tell. It was written all over his face—blond hair, strong jaw, blue eyes—and he knew that the same emotion was mirrored on his own face. The man was reaching for him, motions so desperate, hands trembling and breathing labored. And then…

And then it all felt like the moments were moving slow motion. He saw the man’s face crumpling, the expression of grief hurting more than the strain in his shoulder and the cold wind biting at his exposed skin.

Because he was already falling.

The metal bar gave way to the weight of his body and the heavy winds and broke off the side of the train, and the man in red and white and blue couldn't catch him in time, watching in horror as he plummeted to the bottom of the ravine.

He watched as the train cut through the track, piercing through the blizzard and hiding in a tunnel, leaving him to be swallowed up by the snowstorm.  

He wasn’t sure if he was screaming or not. The wind howling was so loud in his ears that he wasn’t able to tell.

 

.. / .- --

 

_A hospital somewhere in Washington D.C.—_

 

T.J. shot up, a loud gasp ripping through his throat and through the stillness of the room, his face soaked with sweat and _were those tears?_ He furiously scrubbed at his cheeks, quickly ridding his skin of the salty wetness that fell from his eyes before he felt anything akin to embarrassment.

His wild gaze darted around the darkened room. The harsh, overhead lights had been shut off sometime while he was sleeping, but the room still glowed with the pale blue light that shone from the heart monitor near his bed. The beeping of the machine was already slowing down to a steady beat, his racing heart gradually calming. He just hoped that the nurses didn't think he was having another episode. He'd rather they minded their own business.

There was an odd, chilling tremor that still wracked through his body, the aftershocks of that horrible dream—nightmare—causing him to tremble. He pulled the blankets up just for the comfort, but this chill was set deep in his bones, locked tight and trapped with no way to get out, choking him like a frozen vice. He felt distant from the warmth he desperately wanted the blankets to give him, but his whole body kept on trembling, as if he was in a never ending bout of hypothermia.  

He looked to his left and found the usually occupied seat next to his bed empty. He was alone, and he couldn’t have been more relieved. He wanted to be alone; that was really all he had been asking for these past few days. T.J. didn’t want to deal with anyone at the moment, especially his overbearing mother. He loved her dearly, he really did, but her care felt more stifling than comforting. It was just _too much,_ and right now, when all he had done was fuck everything up by overdosing on cocaine, he would rather keep to himself than do anything to mess things up again.

He was a ticking time bomb. He knew it, his whole family knew it. Hell, even the whole world knew it. He had already gone off and exploded many times before. He was destruction on legs, but his family was too blind to realize that he couldn’t be fixed, that he wasn’t supposed to be fixed. Fixing him only made things worse. He was supposed to be left for dead, buried in the remains of his own mistakes.

And the cocaine was just the ammunition to set him off. Again. He didn't deserve to live another second.

“Fuck,” he hissed, running his shaky fingers through sweat-soaked hair. He heaved out a sigh, forcibly pushing the air out of his tight lungs and through his dry throat and mouth. There was no damn clock in his room, but he somehow knew that it was too fucking early to be awake.  

Dreams like that shouldn’t have left him so shaken up, but there was just something about them that T.J. just couldn’t figure out. It was odd enough that the dreams happened to revolve around the same man—something he had deducted when he kept hearing the same voice speaking with that obnoxious Brooklyn drawl.  

Recurring dreams were supposed to mean something, weren’t they?

But something was off about this dream in particular, something different, something that ran so much deeper than the average dream that pummeled through his brain on overdrive. He just couldn’t figure out what it was. The dreams usually just left him confused and eager for more. But this time, he was left choking, on edge, and with a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

His dreams usually didn’t take this much out of him. He felt exhausted—physically and emotionally. His fingers twitched, his left arm pounding with a phantom ache, and he was starting to feel nauseous. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the dream or because he was already starting to have withdrawals.

This dream was more vivid than ever before. He felt the man’s emotion blazing through him like wildfire, and this had never occurred before until just then. It was longer, too. The part in the factory, the part with the train … he had never seen it before.  

Something was off. It felt real. Too real. It felt like he was actually there, or he had been there once in his life.

Blond hair, strong jaw, blues eyes. The name he heard in his dream. Why did that man call him Bucky?

T.J. started having these bizarre dreams ever since he woke up in the hospital after his suicide attempt. He told no one, opting to suffer in silence with the peculiarity of the images that burned behind his eyelids in the forefront of his subconscious and the odd ache in his left arm every time he opened his eyes. He knew nobody would ever listen to him anyway.

But that was almost a year ago, back in December.

He often brushed these dreams off, saying it was just the carbon monoxide that still lingered in his brain making him see these things, but fast forward almost a year to his overdose, it was apparent that nothing had changed.

For months, T.J.’s subconscious swam with the same sepia-tinted visions, but it never occurred to him what exactly these visions were and what they were supposed to mean. The dreams were always about this one man in particular, as if his subconscious was replaying memories from long ago, but he never actually got to see the man’s face. He only ever heard his voice—which sounded so much like his own, except tinged with a Brooklyn accent that left him feeling more confused—and saw flashes of the man’s features, though never his face as a whole.

His life outside of those dreams continued on. The sex, drugs, and alcohol seemed to help keep his mind off them, but every time he closed his eyes, the dreams were still there to haunt him. The only person he seemed confident enough to confide in was his twin brother, Dougie. The rest of his family was left in the dark, having no idea that their beloved T.J. was going crazy. Well, crazier. He was convinced that if he did tell them his situation, they’d abandon him in some kind of mental institute.

Before this last year, many people had drifted in and out of his dreams, his subconscious spitting out random stories of a life he was still trying to piece together. A woman with a beautiful smile that was tight around the edges, her dark hair curled and pulled back into a bun. A little girl, beaming at him with her bright eyes so much like his own. Another woman dressed usually as a nurse with hair like the sun, so kind and so caring. However, there was one person in particular that T.J. realized had a deeper connection with the man in the dream. A mouthy little blond who was as skinny as a stick. In fact, most of his dreams consisted of that stubborn firecracker.

It wasn’t until after he had overdosed on cocaine that the dreams began to morph into a vivid tale. His subconscious had a different story, a new narrative to tell. No more were the characters that use to riddle his dreams—the woman, the little girl, the nurse, and the stubborn blond. It was only a man in red, white, and blue. Someone so familiar yet felt like a stranger, all the same.

Every night after the overdose, it was always the same dream. The same voice. The same man. The same factory. The same train. His nights were never peaceful, not anymore.

His brother was also being no help, whatsoever. T.J. told him what was happening in his dreams, and Dougie had the audacity to suggest that he talk to someone about it, which T.J. haughtily replied with an eloquent, "Fuck you." He didn’t need a fucking therapist, _thanks very much_.

But weeks passed—spent mostly lazing around and “getting help” at D.C.’s finest rehabilitation center—and then, something else started to bother him. It was something more than the dreams themselves. It took him awhile to realize it, but the overdose that landed him in the hospital triggered something deep in his subconscious. He could feel something prickle the forefront of his mind whenever he was wide awake, but it was hard to pinpoint exactly what was going on. 

He began to think differently, sometimes feeling like everything was too damn expensive, as if he had been only living on a few dollars per day when in reality he was basically set for life. At one point, he had the urge to make sure there was enough money on the table to buy both food _and_ medication. But that didn't make any sense at all. He usually never had to buy the groceries; it was usually the help's job, and medication was just prescribed to him. He never gave the pill bottles a lasting thought. They were just there for him to take. They made him feel numb.

He started to speak differently, too, using a Brooklyn accent that felt so out of place in Washington D.C. and the old time slang only his grandmother seemed to understand.

(He called Anne “babydoll” once and asked her a flirtatious “Are you rationed?” without even realizing the words that were coming out of his mouth. Nana laughed so hard, she spilled her scotch all over the carpet. He was quick to apologize, blaming the high spirits at dinner and the booze he was currently nursing, but that only earned him a stern look from his mother. "I'm not drunk, Mama. I just had one drink," he had promised her. He couldn't avoid her stare all night.)

He even found himself almost buying some suspenders. He closed the browser window and slammed his laptop shut when he realized what he was just about to do. Suspenders. For God's sake, what the actual fuck. 

The weird thing was that these behavioral changes were never consistent; they came and went so quickly that it was easy to brush them off once he overcame the odd looks his family and friends would shoot his way.

He tried explaining to his brother that he was feeling very different lately, but Dougie insisted that it had something to do with his medication or something like that. And T.J. almost believed him. He really shouldn't be conversing with a pragmatist like Dougie.

He was still the same old Thomas James Hammond, but after everything that he’d been through, there was just something else _—_ someone else?—wanting to break through.

 

.. / .- --

 

_T.J.’s Apartment—_

 

There was a time when T.J. avoided the internet and television altogether. His attempted suicide almost a year ago and now his overdose on cocaine were the only things people ever cared to talk to about these days. But it was late at night, and he doubted he’d find any incriminating gossip about him or his family while watching the History Channel.

He was alone in his apartment since he hadn’t found anyone worthwhile to bring back for a quick fuck. It had been days since his discharge from rehab and three months since his overdose, but he was quick to learn that being sober, although great for his family’s image, was a fucking bore. But T.J. was well aware that he couldn’t afford another slip up.

He saw he was a few minutes into a documentary about Captain America and decided it was something worth watching. T.J. had learned all about him in school, had even aspired to be the Star Spangled Man with a Plan and learned how to play his theme song on the piano when he was younger. But he was now pushing thirty-years-old and so fucked up in the head with his drug addiction and his never ending need to have a dick up his ass, that he was pretty sure Captain America _,_ his once idol and childhood hero, would be incredibly disappointed in him. Everyone was, so it really wouldn’t have been a surprise.

Being the son of former President of the United States, Bud Hammond, everyone would have expected T.J. to live a life full of luxury and pleasure, but in reality, that wasn’t the case at all. He was forced out of the closet and was constantly put under the scrutiny of the mass public. There was no room for pleasure that didn’t come from sex, drugs, or alcohol.

The world of politics was a jungle, and T.J. was still trying to navigate his way through the thick of it—even if sex, drugs, and alcohol were the only things keeping his head on his shoulders. But now, it was clear to see that not even drugs he kept stuffing into his body were going to help him block out the unnecessary stupidity and animalistic tendencies of the political world. T.J. was officially a clean slate. A fucked up clean slate with two near-death experiences already under his belt. 

Shifting his attention back to the TV screen, he began to take notice that the documentary focused more on Steve Rogers and his life before the war rather than the national icon himself. The commentator spat out information he already knew and learned when he was young boy with a crush, “ _Captain Steven Grant Rogers was born on Thursday, July 4, 1918, to Sarah and Joseph Rogers in Brooklyn, New York City...”_

T.J. usually checked himself out during these kinds of things—the monotonous tone of the commentator’s voice almost always lulling him to sleep—but there was just something about the documentary that forced him to keep his eyes peeled open. He had never paid this much attention to Captain America ever since his younger self discarded that stupid dream, but for some odd reason, his eyes never left the screen. It was as if his body had shut down and fallen under somebody else’s control.

That horrible sinking feeling he always got after his dreams suddenly appeared, settling in his stomach like a thick, heavy ball made of lead. The first strike hit him hard. On the screen showed a more recent colorized photo of Captain America, highly saturated with red, white, and blue. Then, the colors dissolved, leaving a black-and-white photo of Steve Rogers before he had undergone the procedure that made the superhero everyone knew and loved.

Blond hair. Strong jaw. Blue eyes. _A mouthy little blond who was as skinny as a stick_ , his mind supplied. T.J. couldn’t breathe. 

The second strike hit him harder. It was a photo of Sarah Rogers that had a replaced a shot of Steve’s childhood home, yellowed with age and yet still showcasing her arresting beauty. Usually by then, T.J. would have made a snide remark about the horrible transitions all of these documentaries used, but something about this photo hit him in the most peculiar way. His temple began to prickle as the lady in the picture soon became strikingly familiar. 

 _A kind and caring woman dressed like a nurse, hair bright like the sun._  

The thought flittered through his brain before he could even help it. The air was definitely out of his lungs by now. 

The picture of Steve's mother then dissolved into darkness, and the commentator was back on the TV screen, appearing to be walking down some street. The man droned on, _"Sarah Rogers, already a single mother by the time Steve was born, did everything she could to keep a roof over their heads and her own little boy living. Year after year, Steve was struck hard by ailments far and wide. Asthma. Arrhythmia. Scoliosis. Colorblindness. A weak immune system. And that's only to name a few."_  

The commentator's voice buzzed in his ears. He wasn't exactly listening at this point as he was slowly losing himself to his own thoughts. The third strike wasn't a picture this time. 

 _"... James Buchanan Barnes, most commonly known as Captain Rogers' second-in-command and long time best friend, Bucky Barnes, stood by Captain Rogers’ side since they were young boys…”_  

Bucky Barnes. 

Even hearing the name got him reeling as the prickle in his temple slowly grew into a full blown headache. He pressed his fingers firmly to his pounding temples, hoping to relieve the pain, but it only seemed to aggravate the problem even more. 

The final blow was the family photo. A _Barnes_ family photo.  

 _A woman with a beautiful smile that was tight around the edges, her dark hair curled and pulled back into a bun._ Winifred Barnes. That was his ma. His ma. That made no sense. His mother was Elaine Barrish— 

_A little girl, beaming at him with her bright eyes and looking exactly like the woman with the bun._

Rebecca. Little Becca. His sister. No, no, _no_. He had Dougie. His brother. His twin brother— 

"What the _fuck._ Stop. Get outta my head," T.J. growled through gritted teeth, his eyes screwed shut as his hands roughly fisted his hair, so desperate for the pain to stop. But the pain flared up into a throbbing ache. This was so much worse than a hangover, and he was more keen on having one rather than deal with the pounding headache that was hammering harshly against his skull.  

The scream fell from his lips before he could even register what was going on. The pain was too great, and it had escalated to the point where he thought his brain was actually melting from the hot, searing pain that was being inflicted to his head. And then… 

He passed out.

 _"3255 7038..."_  

Thomas James Hammond. 

 _"Sergeant James Barnes..."_  

Just call me T.J.

_"...of the 107th."_

 

.. / .- --

 

_Somewhere—_

 

 _“Did you get your orders?”_  

There he was again surrounded by a haze of muted colors, back in the world of simple times, riddled heavily with war, and he could already tell that this dream was much tamer than the ones before. 

 _The 107th._  

He heard himself say to a man with blond hair, strong jaw, blue eyes. He was much smaller now, the bulging muscles gone and protruding ribs taking their place. He held himself with a hunch, a soft wheeze rattling through his thin chest, but that wasn’t what he _Bucky_ was looking at. All he could see, all he could focus on, was the blood—red, red blood—dripping from the man’s nose, contrasting starkly with the soft baby blues of his eyes.

_Sergeant James Barnes._

He was seeing, watching. He was being. He was… 

 _Shipping for England first thing tomorrow._  

Where was he going? 

 _The war,_ _Thomas_ _TJ_ _James_ _Bucky_ _. You’re going to war._ The thought filtered into his brain, the words spoken to him as if they were part of a monologue of a play he didn’t know he was a part of. 

 _You lost your life, but you’re coming back, James Buchanan Barnes…_  

 _Your soul is still alive._  

_Find him._

The scene changed. The back alley and the small blond man disappeared, leaving him—T.J. or Bucky, whoever he was—shrouded in darkness. 

He was falling. Slowly into the dark depths of the unknown. The terror was gripping at his chest as he stared, wide-eyed, at the darkness above him. He knew that if he tried to turn his head, he would only meet the dark nothingness that surrounded him on all sides.

He was screaming—he was so sure he was—but his ears met silence and nothing else. He heard nothing as the infinite darkness consumed him. 

He was falling. 

Then, all of the sudden, the darkness was met with a light so bright and blinding that he squeezed his eyes shut to block it out. He could still see the bright light behind his eyelids, but he didn’t dare open them. The light shrouded his entire being with a brightness that rivaled the Sun itself, but it didn’t burn when it touched his skin. 

He was falling. And then… He was not.

He opened his eyes and was met with solid white, a stark contrast to the dark abyss that he was sure would have led to his death. But here he was, in this sea of white that seemed to go on forever in all directions. Everywhere he turned, he saw nothing but an infinite room of white.

“Where am I?” he asked. His voice rang out with an echo that sent shivers down his spine, bone-chilling and eerie. He took a few steps forward but soon realized that trying to search for something in this white infinity would have been a waste of time. But it seemed like, in a place like this, time was only a mere concept of nothing and everything. 

Suddenly, he heard a voice. He spun around and found no one was there with him. The voice that joined him wasn’t anything he had ever heard. It was unfamiliar, and yet, it still brought a kind of warmth that ran deep into his core. It reminded him of warm apple pies and soft, honey lullabies. It sounded like his mother, but at the same time, it didn’t. 

_You are home, Bucky._

The answer he was given startled a laugh out of him. His name wasn’t Bucky (or was it? _No_ , it wasn’t). This place wasn’t home. This was just a white plane of nothing, and if this person didn’t tell him where the fuck he was, he was going to scream.

“I’m not— Seriously, where am I?” he asked again, his patience starting to wear thin. This was a joke. It just had to be. He wasn’t Bucky. He was T.J., wasn’t he?

 _A place where you can be yourself._  

Another peal of laughter burst out of him, and it sounded bitter and apprehensive.

 _Do not worry, Bucky. You will learn very soon who were you meant to be._  

He snorted. “Yeah, and what’s that?” 

 _Close your eyes, and you will see_.  

He glared at the white sky above him, but even with the incredulity that was pumping angrily through his veins, his body apparently had a mind of its own. He couldn’t fight the drowsiness that was beginning to overcome him. His eyelids drooped heavily, and his limbs grew slack. He felt himself tip sideways as the white turned back into black. 

He was falling.

 

.. / .- --

 

_T.J.’s apartment—_

 

 _Bucky…_  

_Bucky…_

_Wake up, Bucky…_  

T.J. ( _Bucky—_ No.) woke up in his apartment with a gasp, lying face-down on the hardwood floor,  a puddle of drool pooling at his mouth, and completely disoriented. This wasn’t the first time he had woken up like this _—_ he had woken up in far less attractive positions _—_ but this was the only time where he was sure alcohol and drugs hadn’t been involved. 

“Ah, shit,” he mumbled, struggling to lift himself into an upright position, wiping away the drool with the back of his hand. The migraine had lessened quite a bit as well as the dull pain that surged through his left arm remained.   

He pushed himself off the floor with a pained groan and got up onto his feet, forcing himself to drag his body back to the couch to lie down. His vision blurred in and out of focus, but he could still see that the TV was still on. The Captain America documentary had already concluded, another droning documentary taking its place.

He quickly lost interest. His mind kept drifting off elsewhere, his brain flickering with the dream that left him more confused than anything. It wasn’t like the others, he was certain about that, but he just couldn’t seem to place his finger on it. It had started off normally. The sepia-toned visions that more often than not left him reeling with deja vu were the same, but there were plenty of other things that stood out to him that were far different. 

The black abyss. 

The bright white light. 

The infinite white space of nothing. 

The sweet voice of his mother who wasn’t.

The repetition of a name he didn’t call his own.

He needed to get out of here. The atmosphere in his apartment was suddenly stifling. He was only going to make himself go stir-crazy if he stayed there any longer. He had to go out for a walk or something. Take his mind off of whatever this was. He was too damn tired to figure this out on his own. 

So, with one uttered _fuck it,_ T.J. grabbed his phone and keys with trembling hands and headed out the door of his apartment and into the chilly early morning of a Washington D.C. still shrouded in darkness.  

God, he really needed a drink right now.

 

.. / .- --

 

_Somewhere in Washington D.C.—_

 

He couldn’t get that drink he wanted. For one, all the bars were closed, and secondly, he was supposed to avoid drinking alcohol as per requested by his doctor. So instead, like his mind, T.J. wandered. He wasn’t sure where he was going exactly, but his final destination was the least of his worries. He had nowhere to be for the rest of the day, and even if he did, he was already planning on not going. He wasn’t ready to deal with anyone yet.

So he strolled through the streets of D.C. as he forced himself to relax under the odd circumstances that brought him out here in the first place. He had been on edge ever since the first of those dreams began to formulate in his subconscious, so relaxation was too far for him to grasp, as the anxiety rolled off of him in waves. Luckily for him, it was early enough that even the earliest risers weren’t awake yet to start their day, so there was no one around to see him in his state of panic. 

Though the pain remained, the dull pounding of his migraine was getting easier to ignore the longer he walked. His mind was too preoccupied with thoughts about the peculiar dream he had to really think about the pain it caused. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about what the voice said to him in that infinite white room. How was he going to learn who he was meant to be when he’d always been Thomas James Hammond all his life? None of it made sense. 

Minutes of wandering around stretched into hours of walking, and soon enough, he found himself at the National Mall. The sun began to peek through the overcast of clouds, streaking the sky with hues of pink and purple as he walked along the Reflecting Pool. He figured it was time for him to go home and laze around for the rest of the day, maybe binge-watch _Chopped_.  

The sound of feet pounding against the pavement pulled him out of his own thoughts, and T.J. turned to find the source of it.

“On your left,” a man with the broadest shoulders he had ever seen muttered with a huff as he whizzed on by, his heavy pants of breath trailing after him.   

He moved too fast for T.J. to catch a glimpse of his face, but he was more than happy to let his eyes fall on his ass. The sweatpants hugging his hips left little to imagination. Forget about heading home. Watching this man run was far more entertaining than lazing around his couch and watching _Chopped_ all day.  

It wasn’t long before the man had circled around the pool again, faster than was humanly possible, but T.J. was far from complaining. His eyes slowly traveled over his broad shoulders, his muscled back, and finally settled on the curve of his ass, before the man those assets belonged to disappeared around the corner just to circle back around again. This happened more than once, and he seized every moment he could get to let his eyes graze over this fine specimen. 

He wasn’t sure how long he spent watching that man run by him, but by the time he was watching him  catch his breath, it was light enough outside for people to already be out and about. One glance at his phone told him that it was nearing seven in the morning. He had been out for hours, no wonder his feet were starting to ache. He turned to leave.

“Bucky?” He paused, foot hanging in suspense, brow furrowing in confusion. He heard that name before _—_ a long time ago or very recently, he couldn’t remember _—_ but he had never heard it said with a voice filled with so much pain and longing.  

The name brought back the prickle in his brain. That wasn’t his name. He was T.J. Hammond. _Bucky Barnes_ . Thomas James Hammond. _James Buchanan Barnes_ . Son of Elaine Barrish and Bud Hammond. _Son of Winifred and George Barnes._ Brother of Douglas Hammond. _Brother of Rebecca Barnes_ . That wasn’t… No. _Stop_. This wasn’t right.  

He turned to find the owner of that voice and only found the man he had been watching. But it wasn’t just any ordinary man just finishing his morning run. It was Captain America. He’d been watching Captain America. Oh, Jesus.

Although he was embarrassed to say that he had been checking out Captain America, T.J.’s embarrassment wasn’t the reason why he was so distraught. It was the name. That stupid name. It sent everything crashing down, like a domino effect that was never-ending.

The prickle in the forefront of his mind morphed into something ugly the longer he stared at the man in front of him. The pain was searing hot, shooting up his left arm and straight to his brain. His breathing grew labored as his vision blurred between his dreams and reality, his chest tightening with every breath he took. The man– Captain America– Steve _fucking_ Rogers walked towards him with his arms outstretched probably to catch him if he fell. He could see his mouth moving, but the words were muted by the blood rushing through his ears. T.J. scrambled backwards, fear clouding over glassy eyes that failed to see the difference between dream and reality. 

Blond hair. Strong jaw. Blue eyes. 

The man in red, white, and blue suddenly took Steve’s place, the helmet with the painted ‘A’ taunting him, the green scenery of the National Mall abruptly replaced by the blazing fires of the factory. He could hear an explosion in the distance. 

Blond hair. Strong jaw. Blue eyes. Blond hair. Strong jaw. Blue eyes. 

“No,” he moaned in agony, cradling his head in hands as the pain grew. Tears of pain and frustration welled up in his eyes. “ _No_. Stop. I can’t-”   

Blond hair. Steve was in front of him again, and then he was gone. 

Strong jaw. He was on a mountain ledge, standing next to the man in red, white, and blue, and then he was gone. 

Blue eyes. He was on a train, holding onto a shield, and then he was... 

Falling. 

Steve Rogers and the man in red, white, and blue melded into one _—_  

“I’m not Bucky!” 

A voice screamed through the roar in his brain, and he realized belatedly that it was his own. All at once the pain ceased, and the deafening silence that soon followed after was utterly overwhelming. T.J. felt like he was drowning. He couldn’t breathe. He stared at Steve, and Steve stared back. Neither of them moved. It was T.J. who broke the silence, the words spoken in a lame whisper,

“I- I’m not.”

The moment those words fell from his lips, it felt like a lie, heavy on his tongue.

_You will learn very soon who were you meant to be._

T.J. shook his head, dispelling the voice in his head. He slowly backed away from Steve and turned on his heel, breaking out into a run. He squeezed his eyes shut to rid of the tears that were threatening to fall but the look of bewildered hurt that flashed across Steve’s face was burned into the backs of his eyelids. It was impossible to unsee it.  

 

.. / .- --

 

_Some time—_

 

He had neither a sense of time nor direction as they dragged him out of the cell that held the rest of his team. He kicked and screamed, trying so hard to wrestle away from their tight grips, but they strapped him down with thick straps of leather before he could get away. He overheard a quick whispering of words above him, something about how he was the perfect candidate. For what exactly, he wasn’t sure, and he had no idea who “they” were either. 

They asked him questions, but with the military training drilled into him, he spat out his answer through gritted teeth, the very answer he’d been using ever since he and the 107th had been captured by these lunatics.

_James Barnes. Sergeant. 3255 7038._

A face appeared above him. Pudgy and ugly and smiling an evil grin. He could see his lips move, but his brain registered the words, heavy with a Swiss accent, a moment too late.

_“Start the procedure.”_

Before he could realize what was happening, they punctured him with sharp needles that lacked the medical expertise he associated with doctors, pumping him up with a concoction of different substances he couldn’t name. His mind grew hazy as they began to kick in, his name, rank, and number still on his lips.

He was still strapped to the table as he began to return to consciousness. The diabolical face of the pudgy man in glasses had wheedled itself into his subconscious like a parasite that refused to leave. He continued to rattle off his name, rank, and number, even if his mind wasn’t thinking straight. He didn’t know when and where he was, but he was so sure that this is what death felt like. He waited.

_James Barnes..._

And waited.

_Sergeant..._

And waited.

_3255 7038._

It felt as though salvation was too far from his reach. The leather straps that strapped him down sat heavy on his body, holding him down and squeezing the life out of him, like a boa constrictor killing its prey. He was going to die here. In this old factory that reeked of gunpowder and decaying flesh. He just never pictured his death to be like this.

Until...

Salvation came.

_Sergeant. 3255—_

_“It’s me. It’s Steve.”_

Blond hair, strong jaw, and blue eyes materialized right before him in such a familiar fashion. Unwelcomed dread filled the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want this to be a hallucination. He hoped this wasn’t a hallucination.

_Steve?_

The name fell from his lips like a prayer. Was he dead? Was this an angel collecting him for his final ascent onward?

_“Come on.”_

He felt someone tug the straps free from the table and pull him up into a seated position. The man was still there, grasping his arms and shoulders and taking stock of his injuries.

_Steve…_

The face that stared right back at him was someone he had seen before. Maybe in another dream, or maybe in some other reality.

_“I thought you were dead.”_

He wasn’t exactly sure, but this bigger, bulkier body in front of him just didn’t seem right. He could imagine that face on a smaller body.

_I thought you were smaller._

He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew one thing: salvation was Steve.

 

.. / .- --

 

_Nana’s house—_

 

Some time had passed since his encounter with Steve at the National Mall, and T.J. was still shaken up by the visions that blurred into existence. He hadn’t expected himself to react that way, to see his dreams and reality colliding into one the moment he laid his eyes on Steve’s face.

T.J. was bursting at the seams, trying to keep everything to himself, but it was proving to be difficult. He wasn’t sure how long he was able to put up with this charade, especially when his own grandmother had a knack for seeing things as they were. And if he trusted anyone in his family the most, it would be his grandmother.

He was at his Nana’s house. If he was keeping up appearances, he wasn’t going to bail out on his grandmother for their weekly meetings. He knew she’d get suspicious if just missed one. He was also breaking the ‘no drinking’ rule his doctor made his promise to abide by, but Margaret Barrish wasn’t a stickler for rules and no one was around to catch him nursing a tumbler glass filled with bourbon. She figured her grandson needed a little pick me up.

His mind was still reeling from the incident. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he had seen. The collision of his dreams versus reality made it impossible to disprove that Steve Rogers was the man in his dreams _—_ the man in red, white, and blue. The man’s face used to be a blur, but after his run in with Captain America, his subconscious made him see Steve’s face every time he closed his eyes and relived the same dream over and over again. 

He should have realized it sooner. The red, white, and blue were obvious giveaways, but there was a part of him that was still in denial. He didn’t want to believe that he was the ‘Bucky’ in those dreams, because he wasn’t. He was T.J. Hammond, not the man who lived years ago and fought during the Second World War. But as the nights grew longer and the dreams haunted his very mind, it was getting hard to convince himself that he wasn’t Captain America’s second-in-command.

“You’re awful quiet today.”

His grandmother’s voice pulled him right out of the mess that were his thoughts. He took a sip from his glass to prolong the conversation and gather his thoughts, the burn taking his mind off the lingering pain in his left arm and his head. 

“Sorry, Nana. It’s just—” T.J. inhaled sharply, finding the glass in his hands far more interesting to look at. “—I don’t know. I think I’m just stressed. Everything with mom resigning and the media, y’know?” He ran his fingers through his hair and knocked back the rest of his drink. He offered his grandmother a smile, but it was no use. She could see right through him. 

A beat of silence of followed, but Margaret broke it with a touch of sympathy, “I know you, T.J., and I know you’re not giving me the entire truth. What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” 

T.J. The name she called him made him feel like fraud, as if he was living a life that wasn’t his, and that thought suddenly made him sick to his stomach. It frightened him to think about how much everything was changing. About how much he himself had changed. He knew he wasn’t the same T.J. from a year ago.

His grandmother looked at him with her gentle, searching eyes, and maybe it was the few glasses of bourbon in his system, but it was enough to get him talking. The words began to spill from his mouth and out onto the open in a jumbled, blubbering mess,

“The dreams I’ve been having—I know you all said that they were just dreams and I should forget about them, but I just can’t. I don’t think I could even if I tried. They don’t feel like dreams. They feel like memories, and I remember them all so vividly. But I just know they aren’t mine because they’re not from this time—not even from this century—or, I don’t think they are.” He swallowed thickly as his hands began to tremble before him. “Everytime I close my eyes, I see a life that I’ve never lived. People I’ve never seen. It’s not my life, but it feels like it is…” 

He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. His Nana watched him, quiet, as if knowing he wasn’t done yet. He took another breath and sipped his drink, calming his nerves. 

When he felt he was ready, he continued quietly, “And after the overdose …the dreams started revolving around this one person. There’s an exploding factory, a train, and by the end of it, I’m falling into nowhere. I always wake up with a headache, there’s this pain in my left arm. I try to make sense of it all, but I just don’t know how. All of it feels so damn familiar and so strange, and I…I just want it to stop, Nana.” 

A noise that sounded like a sob fell from his lips before he could even think about suppressing it. Everything that he managed to keep bottled inside for the past year was now bubbling up to the surface. He was breaking down. The weathered hand that landed on his shoulder startled him briefly, but he welcomed his grandmother’s soothing touch, so desperate for the comfort.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathed as she pulled him close for a much-needed embrace. 

The tears that began to drip down his cheeks were a surprise, but before he could move to wipe them away, his grandmother was already brushing the tears off his face with a gentle hand. 

The words poured out from his lips on their own accord, leaving himself vulnerable and bare, as his grandmother watched him fall apart right before her eyes. Those seven words hung in the open, dripping with anguish and confusion, as silence followed soon after. It was a revelation that left him choking for air, but still a revelation, nonetheless, 

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

 

.. / .- --

 

_Elsewhere—_

 

_You will find your soul, James Barnes. Just believe that you are._

 

.. / .- --

 

_T.J.’s apartment—_

 

After months of staying out of the spotlight, the family thought it’d be best to formally introduce him back into the jungle. What hoped to be a successful press junket quickly turned into a ill-fated backlash, even before he had the chance to speak. Ever since the eye-opening epiphany he had from his talk with his Nana, it had grown difficult to pay attention to the questions that were thrown in T.J.’s way.

Only, he wasn’t exactly sure if he was T.J. right now. He actually just wasn’t sure _who_ he was at the moment, exactly, but he went along with it because it was his family’s reputation he had to save. It was clear to the press that he wasn’t fully present, but that was something to write about on their silly tabloids, not something to say in his face. It was just a whirlwind of fake smiles and handshakes, his name thrown back into the mass public like bait for a predator, and all these strangers just ate it all up.

He hated it every second of it. 

It was one thing to keep up appearances around his family, but having to do it in front of thousands of people _—_ thousands of strangers _—_ was more exhausting than he had remembered. He deserved a break. He needed a distraction to take his mind off of everything, and he knew just the thing.  

He had been going through a bit of a dry spell ever since his time in the hospital, and it was about time he got himself out of it. He missed the feeling of a warm body against his, the sensations, the smells, and the sounds, that accompanied it. He missed the thrill of sneaking around with a stranger he barely knew. He just missed having mindless sex. He pulled up Grindr on his phone the minute he stepped into his apartment, swiping through a number of possible lays until he found one that fit the bill. He didn’t care about names at this point, just as long as they had a nice body and was willing to sleep with him. It didn’t take long before tonight’s lay arrived at his door.

“T.J., right?” he asked, as if his name and face hadn’t just been plastered all over the media, as if he wasn’t the son of former President Bud Hammond. He tried his best not to wince, since this was just some innocent stranger _—_ well, not completely innocent.

“Yup, that’s me.” T.J. grinned, the perfect mix of sultry and sweet, and tugged the warm body into his apartment, shutting the door to hide from prying eyes. He didn’t even know the guy’s name, but he looked hot, and that was all that mattered. 

It had been awhile since he had last gotten laid, but he was more than ready to get back into the game. He’d already broken the ‘no drinking’ rule that he promised his doctor, so there was no other reason why he couldn’t add sex to his already lengthy list of bad decisions. He was known as the wild card and the black sheep of the Barrish-Hammond family, so why not live up to the name? 

The door had barely closed before their lips crashed into each other for a round of hungry kisses. A flurry of movement sent the two of them to the bedroom, a trail of clothes following them in their wake. If he didn’t care to remember the guy’s name, he couldn’t have cared less about where their clothes went. Just as long as they hurried onto the bed and got on with it. 

“Eager, are we?” Andy _—_ or, Anthony, something like that _—_ stared down at him with eyes alight with lust and mischief, but T.J. wasn’t up for any chitchat. He fell to the bed with a slight bounce and dragged him down with him, easily losing himself to the touch of the other man. 

Sex had always come so easy. A simple give-and-take that didn’t need to have any strings attached, and he preferred it that way. They’d kiss a bit, he’d give a blowjob, and if the guy was hot enough, maybe he could throw a bit of penetration into the mix. Anything more than that often led to disaster, and that was coming from experience. There was a reason his mother found him in a car, half-dead, in a cloud of carbon monoxide. 

After a round of sex that could have been better _,_ he left any open-ended questions unanswered and practically shoved whatever-his-name out the door. It wasn’t much of anything, just on the right side of mediocre. There didn’t need to be any room for formalities since it was just a quick fuck. He’d already accepted the fact that some of these sneaky politicians were just looking for a hole to stick their dick in, and T.J. was happy to serve. It was cheap, but it was still sex.   

He tugged on a clean pair of boxers and threw himself onto his bed, after ripping off the sheets that reeked of sex. He rolled onto his back with an arm bent to pillow his head, his eyes unseeing as they stared through the ceiling. He heaved out a sigh, wishing he could just find the answers to the thousands of questions running through his mind in the popcorn ceiling above him. Maybe then he wouldn’t need to torture himself with mindless sex.

Because as he expected, he felt just as numb as before.

 

.. / .- --

 

_Some place—_

 

A hazy kind of smoke filled the jovial atmosphere as laughter buzzed in his ears. He could see that everyone was in high spirits, including his own team who seemed to have invaded the corner of the bar that had a piano in it. He felt himself grin. It was nice to have a little respite from the horrors of war every now and then.   

He turned as a man joined him, sitting down in the barstool next to his. It was Steve Rogers, clear as day, with his blond hair, strong jaw, and blue eyes. He ordered another round of beers for the other Commandos. They were all on Steve _—_ that generous bastard. 

 _See? I told you. They’re all idiots._  

Steve grinned, sly and simple. He looked good. 

 _“How about you? You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”_  

He snorted at Steve and knocked back another swig of his beer. It was starting to feel a bit lukewarm, but if Steve was providing another round for the Commandos, he’d like to take up on that offer. 

_Hell, no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him._

The grin was back on his face, giving Steve a once-over with a quick sweep of his eyes. He leaned in close, almost as if he was telling him a secret, 

 _But you’re keeping the outfit, right?_  

A single beat, and it was followed by a flirty grin and a glance towards a poster tacked on the far wall. 

_“You know what? It’s kinda grown on me.”_

 

.. / .- --

 

_The Smithsonian—_

 

He found some kind of answer in the form of a pamphlet that gave him the directions to the Captain America exhibit in the Air and Space Museum at The Smithsonian _—_ why it was held at the Air and Space Museum was beyond him. If he did recall, the last plane Steve flew, he crashed into the Arctic. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d be getting out of a visit to the exhibit, but there was a chance some of his many questions might be answered.  

He stepped through the doors, cap hanging low over his face, and made his way through the throngs of people with hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. He tried his best to appear inconspicuous, not wanting catch any unwarranted attention, though he still felt like he was being watched from afar. 

He followed the flow of foot traffic and stopped in front of each plaque, reading off words he used to be so obsessed about but lost interest with age. He passed by videos and pictures of an older time, reminiscent of the many visions that haunted his dreams. There was even a section that compared Steve’s pre-serum body to his post-serum one. This place had everything he could ever need to learn about Captain America. If he saw this twenty years ago, he would have cried. 

He eventually slowed to a stop once he reached a mural that spanned from floor to ceiling. It highlighted the Howling Commandos and some of the adventures that were led by Captain America. He stood there, almost as if in a trance.  He saw a face that was his, but at the same time, wasn’t. It had been painted on the wall with the utmost care, just like the rest of the pieces that completed the mural before him. 

A familiar prickle of pain in the forefront of his mind emerged from its dormant slumber, but he chose to ignore it.

He looked below and saw the replicated uniforms of each of the Howling Commandos that lined the front of the mural, each one standing in front of its painted counterpart. The six mannequins of the Commandos stood at attention, all of them ready to follow their Captain into battle. His eyes swept over the mural from left to right. There was Steve in the center, flanked by the Howling Commandos, who stood on either side of him. The names of the men he once knew were a distant noise in his head.

_Dernier, Jones, Dum Dum, Monty, and Morita._

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and if he closed his eyes, he could easily imagine himself in Barnes’s shoes, walking alongside these men through some forest in Europe. He had a gun in his hands and was covered head to toe with grime, trekking through mud and rain to get to their next battle. The smell of nature, cool and crisp, filled his nose. He felt like had been through hell, his body sore and littered with cuts and bruises. He was in the middle of the Second World War, so that wouldn’t have been so far from the truth. 

His eyes lingered on Captain America’s uniform for a few moments, the words that were spoken once in a dream appearing in his mind. _You’re keeping the outfit, right?_ He then let his gaze fall to the uniform next to it _—_ a simple blue coat with the Commandos insignia sewn into left arm _._  

The pain increased, turning from into an annoyance to a nagging feeling in the forefront of his mind. He turned away, before it could get any worse and explored the rest of the exhibit. 

He could still feel that someone was watching him, but there were too many people in the room to tell who exactly was the culprit. He quickly shook off the feeling, chalking it up to his own paranoia. He didn’t see the pair of blue eyes staring at him from across the way. 

He soon came across the part of the exhibit that commemorated James Buchanan Barnes’s memory. With eyes locked on the glass pane in front of him, the face of Bucky Barnes stared right back. It was as if he was looking into a mirror. The resemblance was uncanny. By that point, the painful prickle began to intensify even more, and it was getting harder for him to ignore.

The automated audio player turned on just then, _“Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield…”_  

And the pain in his head suddenly grew worse. His breathing picked up just as his left arm began to spasm with a searing pain. His left hand formed a fist, nails biting into his skin in hopes to displace the pain elsewhere. 

 _“...Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.”_  

“Shit _—fuck_ ,” he muttered through gritted teeth. He inhaled sharply through his nose as the pain increased and crawled underneath his skin like a wildfire consuming a forest. He swayed dizzyingly on his feet and stumbled to the side. No one had noticed yet how much he was suffering, going on about the rest of their days as if he was no part of their narrative. The voices of the many unsuspecting people that surrounded him were muffled by the blood pounding through his ears. He couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his quick, shallow breaths.  

He reached out and grabbed onto the information panel for balance, the words that lined it swimming in and out of focus, the edges of  his vision closing in with an unwelcomed shade of black. He looked down, and there lied a screen, and on that screen, was him _—_ no, not him, _Bucky_. There was Bucky and Steve, and they were laughing.  

He’d never seen Captain America smile like that before.

It all happened too quickly. The next thing he knew, he was tipping sideways, and the world had tilted on its axis. Someone shouted his name. The voice sounded too familiar, but he couldn’t figure out who it belonged to. His mind was a hazy mess, his limbs going numb as his body hit the floor. He saw a pair of feet running toward him. 

And then…

Everything went black. 

 _Your soul is still alive._  

_Find him._

 

.. / .- --

 

_Somewhere a vow was made—_

 

 _We looked for you after. My folks wanted to give you a ride from the cemetery._  

His lips moved with words he could faintly remember saying in a past life.   

They were coming back from a funeral, the bleak atmosphere appropriate for the somber mood that hung above them both like a dark cloud.

A small, blond man was walking ahead of him, heading up the old, rickety stairs two steps at a time. His rigid, thin shoulders barely filled up the hand-me-down suit jacket he wore, the too-long hem of his pants brushing against the tops of his shoes. He followed him, not far behind _—_ just like he had always promised since they were kids.  

 _“I know, I’m sorry. I just… kind of wanted to be alone.”_  

The other man held himself as if he was so close to breaking. He was trembling, and he swore he could hear a slight wheeze and rattle coming from somewhere deep in his chest. 

 _How was it?_  

There was a pause. A single breath.

 _“It was okay. She’s next to Dad.”_  

He watched as the man shoved his shaking hands into his pockets, as if he was looking for something. He had an inkling about what it was.

 _I was gonna ask…_  

 _“I know what you’re gonna say, Buck, I just…”_ Buck. Bucky. That was his name. 

 _We can put the couch cushion on the floor like when we were kids. All you gotta do is shine my shoes. Maybe, take out the trash._  

The man continued to struggle, hands flying in and out of pockets, as he tried to find his keys. It obvious that the man was distraught from today’s events, but he refused to show it. Once they got to the door of his apartment, he had enough of seeing him struggle. He kicked a brick to the side and bent down to grab the apartment keys that were underneath. He handed them over.

_Come on._

He was practically begging. He couldn't bare to stand by and watch his first love his best friend deal with this alone. He didn't deserve to go through this without someone by his side. 

The man turned to face him then, and he was met with features that were so familiar to him now. The face that stared back at him was slimmer, but the blond hair, strong jaw, and blue eyes were still the same. His brow hung low, marring his slim face with an  underlying stubbornness that reminded him of a mule.

 _“Thank you, Buck, but I can get by on my own.”_ The name. That name. There it was again. 

_The thing is, you don't have to..._

He shook his head and reached out to grasp the other man by the shoulder, jarring him slightly to get his message through to him. 

_I’m with you ‘til the end of the line._

Then, in an instant, Steve’s face softened with a smile.

 

.. / .- --

 

_A break room—_

 

“...be okay?” 

“...won’t know...wakes up…” 

He (T.J. _—_ Bucky _—_ or, someone in between) awoke to the sound of muddled voices, his consciousness not yet fully awake to register what was happening around him. But from where he lay with his head pillowed on something soft, he could hear the faint strains of a conversation, the words streaming through his mind but failing to stick to his brain. One of the voices sounded familiar, but he was too slow on the uptake and struggled to give it a name and a face.  

His eyes moved behind his eyelids, and he heard someone inhale sharply next to him. He wasn’t sure where he was, but it was quiet, and it was a nice change to the overwhelming exhibit floor that left his ears ringing. His head and his left arm still pounded with a dull ache, but fortunately for him, it had become easier to bear.

After moments of contest, he finally opened his eyes, and once they adjusted to the lighting in the room, he was met with a view that he hadn’t been expecting _—_  

“Steve?” 

He sat up in an instant, heart racing his chest. His vision blurred for a brief moment, the sudden whiplash jostling his brain and making him feel a bit light-headed. His brow furrowed in confusion as he owlishly blinked away the bleariness in his eyes. The face of the man in his dreams came into focus, and he couldn’t bring himself to look away. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating, thought his dreams were forcing themselves onto his reality again and making him believe that he was seeing Steve Rogers and not just some random stranger who helped him.   

He saw the beginnings of a name that wasn’t his but was form on luscious lips, bitten to the point of redness, but it seemed that Steve thought better of it and decided to say something else, “T.J., hi… Are you feeling okay?” 

“Wh-What are you doing here?” he croaked out hoarsely, almost sounding accusatory with a touch of sharp hostility. His bewilderment was evident, marring his features with an expression that mirrored how he felt. He sat there with suspicion, staring at the man he had always seen in his dreams, feeling more lost and confused than he had ever been before.   

Whoever had spoken to Steve earlier had left some time ago, leaving the two of them alone in what appeared to be some kind of break room, probably somewhere deep in the backrooms of the Smithsonian. If T.J. hadn’t been so weak from the fall, he would have run from him again, but as it was, there he stayed, sitting dumbly next to the man in red, white, and blue. Though, the red in his outfit was certainly lacking, sticking to a simple white shirt beneath a navy blue bomber jacket with a blue cap on his head, similar to the one he had been wearing. 

“You collapsed in the middle of the exhibit,” Steve replied, using a voice that was low and even. The same voice that often filtered through his dreams. Without the mask he always wore _—_ blue with a large, white ‘A’ _—_ he could see the concern that clouded his features. Concern for him. The only time he’d ever seen an expression like that was whenever he was with his family.  

“I did?” he asked belatedly.

Steve nodded, offering him a soft smile that held a hint of uneasiness, “Yeah. You really gave us all quite a scare out there.” And even with a smile like that, it was still just as blinding. 

“Sorry,” T.J. said, the word leaving his mouth almost automatically. He was just so used to taking the blame and having it always be his fault that an apology was more often than not already on his lips, just waiting to be said. 

“Hey, don’t _—_ Don’t be sorry.” He shook his head, looking all sweet and concerned. T.J. really didn’t deserve all this genuine kindness from America’s Golden Boy. He didn’t deserve any of it. All his sweet smiles and bashful looks kind of made him want to scream.  

Steve sighed, catching the look in T.J.’s eyes. “Look. I know that we started off on the wrong foot, and we haven’t really talked ever since that day… at the National Mall, but I just _—_ ” He huffed out a chuckle in disbelief. “ _—_ there’s something about you, T.J. Hammond. You remind me of someone.” 

And wasn’t that the understatement of the century.

“Get that all the time,” he muttered, letting out a bitter chuckle, as if he hadn’t spent his whole life being compared to the one and only Bucky Barnes, as if he hadn’t ran away from the guy who thought he was his long-lost, dead best friend.

T.J. tipped his head back to rest against the couch and stared up at the ceiling, trying his best to ignore the man sitting beside him. He took a few deep, calming breaths, his heart still beating far too fast to be considered normal. He needed to get out of here. The sooner, the better. But it seemed like Steve wanted to continue their conversation, even if it was lacking anything important. However, being the good guy he was, Steve, of course, wouldn’t have wanted a conversation to die out like that. T.J., on the other hand, had a different plan in mind. 

“You know what? I think I’m feeling better already.” He swung his legs off the side of couch, a smile plastered onto his face. It appeared that he done a full one-eighty. He moved to stand up, leaving a dumbfounded Steve on the couch. 

“Wait _—_ T.J., where are you going?” he asked. The look on his face reminded him of a kicked puppy. T.J. quickly shook his head to rid of the thought. He wasn’t going to fall for it. He was stronger than that.   

“Home,” he answered curtly, making his way over to the door. He was feeling a bit off-kilter, but he’d rather go back to his apartment and rest than sit here next to America’s favorite superhero. He was better off there anyway, where he had a couch, Cable TV, and some meds to ease away the pain. He didn’t want to have to feel any guilt _—_ which was totally unwarranted _—_ just because Steve was looking at him like he told him democracy and the right to vote was stupid.  

“Well, if you’re going home _—_ ”  

T.J. paused in his step when he heard Steve speak up. With a hand on the doorknob, he turned to face him, an eyebrow raised expectantly. He was just standing there, looking so lost like a puppy left in the rain. He had never seen a man so nervous, and this was Captain _fucking_ America.

“ _—_ maybe I should give you a ride.”

Oh, Jesus.

 

.. / .- --

 

_D.C. and elsewhere—_

 

If someone told him that he’d be riding through the streets of Washington D.C. on the back of Captain America’s motorcycle, he’d laugh in their face and accuse them of lying. But that would be a year ago, when he was mostly high off of drugs and not at all okay. A year later _—_ and mostly sober and off of hard drugs, at least _—_ here he was, sitting behind Steve with his arms wrapped tight around his trim waist. Surely, a wet dream come true.  

T.J. couldn’t deny that he had been expecting good ol’ Captain Rogers to ride some old man’s car when they headed out to the parking lot, so it was a nice slap to the face to find that he drove a beautiful, black Harley. He watched him straddle the bike _—_ a sight that he would most definitely stow away in his spank bank, thank you very much—and quickly shoved his head into the helmet that Steve insisted he wear before things got too weird. 

Or, well _—_ more weird than things already were. This was just a very odd situation he found himself in.

The scenery they passed quickly merged into a messy blur, and it started to make him feel dizzy. He closed his eyes to give himself some much-needed reprieve, his arms tightening around his waist as Steve swerved to make a left. He rested his head against the warm, supple leather of his jacket, fabric stretched tight over his broad, muscled back.

This was far from what he had expected his day to go, but he wasn’t complaining. A free ride home on the back of Captain America’s motorcycle was more than he could ever ask for. In some other lifetime, his thirteen-year-old self was probably swooning. But there was just something else that bothered him: the fact that he’d just collapsed in the middle of the Smithsonian, and Steve just happened to be there to help him.

The fainting was apparently a recurring theme now, and it probably had something to do with the overwhelming exposure to all the things that were linked to the dreams he’s been having. The part with Steve, though. That was something he still couldn’t figure out. 

The motorcycle eventually rolled to a stop in front of his apartment complex. Steve shut off the bike, and T.J. spent a minute bringing himself from his thoughts. It had been easy to let his mind wander as the bike roared and rumbled beneath him.

“Hey, T.J. _—_ You alright? Need some help?” Steve asked, and it took everything in him not to roll his eyes at the sweet, Good Samaritan act he was playing. 

 _No, I don’t need your goddamn help._ He forced himself to bite back the comment that was practically dripping with a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t think that Steve would appreciate being insulted, especially after all the good that he had done for him, but he needed to back off just a little. He wasn’t an invalid, for Christ’s sake.  

“No, I’m good,” he answered coolly instead, and to prove his point _—_ as childish at it was _—_ he climbed off the bike with a haughty huff, even though he still felt a little shaky on his feet. He tugged the helmet off his head and handed it over to Steve.  

“Okay,” Steve said, simple and quiet, and now the kicked puppy look was back again. Will this guy ever let him catch a break? 

There was a moment of silence that followed right after, and the two of them just stood there awkwardly. He wasn’t entirely sure what the exact protocol was when dealing with national heroes. He was far more better equipped in handling one night stands, since those were just a one-and-done deal. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. He just went along with his instincts instead,

“You, uh _—_ You wanna head inside?”

 

.. / .- --

 

_T.J.’s apartment—_

 

Okay, so maybe inviting Steve over into his apartment wasn’t such a good idea, but he’s already had a whole lot of bad ideas lately, so there was nothing holding him back from doing another. 

As good of a host as he was at parties, T.J. was a terrible one when it came to his own home. The awkward silence that had fallen over them outside in the parking lot followed them inside, and he had no idea what to do about it. 

He wasn’t used to having company that either wasn’t part of his family or wasn’t a guy from Grindr. Except when his family was involved, his apartment had become sort of a safe haven for his many escapades that usually ended with sex, drugs, alcohol, or even a dangerous concoction of all three. So having Steve Rogers _—_ national icon, beloved hero to all, his seventh grade crush and possibly the reason why he even realized he was gay _—_ in his living room and probably standing where he’d made out with a bunch of strangers and most likely engaged in oral sex with, was absolutely his worst nightmare. It was horrifying and a tad bit embarrassing.  

This meant that he was bringing a man, who had saved thousands of lives, pretty much single-handedly ended World War Two, and probably walked old ladies across the street on numerous occasions, into his world. A world that even he was scared of sometimes. And an honest, good guy like Steve Rogers shouldn’t be hanging around a resident bad boy like him. He’d hate to be the one who tarnished Captain America’s goody-goody reputation.

It was guys like him who fuck everything up the moment they walk in.

“You want a drink or something?” T.J. asked stiltedly, trying so hard to force conversation into an already awkward moment. “I only have water around here _—_ maybe even some juice _—_ I don’t know. I’m technically not supposed to be drinking, so if you want a beer or some hard liquor, you’re outta luck, pal.”  

He winced internally. He was pretty much spitting out word vomit at this point, but Steve had the decency to look like he wasn’t watching a grown man babble on like an idiot. 

“No, thanks. I’m good,” Steve replied with an honest smile. Damn him and his beautiful face. 

This was not working out for him at all. T.J. wasn’t even sure why he was still trying at this point. He should probably just ask Steve to leave, but there was still a part of them that needed to set things straight between the two of them. They had left on a sour note, and it was T.J. who was to blame for that. But he wasn’t one for serious conversations, especially if those conversations were because of his own actions.

He was more well attuned in dealing with problems through a number of things, and talking wasn’t one of them. The way he dealt with his problems was more along the lines of getting completely wasted and high off drugs and having sex with a random stranger. Nobody said that he was good at handling his own problems. 

“Uh, well _—_ you can just go ahead and sit down. Get comfortable,” he uttered, rubbing the back of his neck with a hint of anxiety that prickled underneath his skin. He itched for something to do other than talk, and his brain only came up with only one solution. He knew it was a terrible idea, but his conscience did nothing to stop it.

Steve was making his way over to the couch when T.J. reached out and grabbed him by the arm _._ They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, Steve’s expectant gaze waiting for him to speak, but T.J. continued to gape at him until his mouth finally caught up with his brain. 

“Ah, fuck it,” he muttered lowly, not even giving himself a chance to think as he pulled Steve close and kissed him, hot and heavy and doused with passion. 

For a moment, he thought Steve would push him away in disgust, but Mr. Good Reputation over here held him in his arms and pulled him flush against his body, their kiss growing more passionate by the second. Their bodies gravitated closer to each other, leaving not even a hair’s breadth between them. 

Now, _this_ was more up to his speed. He could already imagine the things he’d do to Steve right then and there.  

T.J. moaned, wanton and open, his lips parting without protest as Steve swiped his tongue along the seam of his lips. The kiss deepened, their tongues now sliding deliciously against each other with a sweet brand of friction, as Steve’s warm, calloused hands roamed over his body and lit him up in ways that he had long forgotten. The possessiveness in his touch was enough to make T.J. keel over with pleasure. 

They toppled sideways onto the couch, and without a moment to spare, T.J. clambered on top of Steve, straddling his hips. His hands snaked their way up the back of his shirt and pushed the unwanted fabric up and over his head. T.J. sat up and tossed it carelessly to the side, before tugging at the hem of Steve’s shirt to take it off. He was blown away by the sight underneath it. 

His eyes darkened with lust, lips quirking up into a breathless kind of smile _—_ sultry, flirty, and reserved for his many lays _—_ as he stared down at the man below him. He took stock of his swollen, pink lips and flushed face, his eyes dropping lower to admire his broad pectorals and well-defined abs _—_ two things he was definitely stowing away in his mind for later.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” T.J. breathed. He was panting now, but he wasted no time. He lowered himself back down to kiss Steve again, sliding a tongue past his lips. He felt a hand caress the back of his neck, those long, artist fingers running through his hair.

He shifted his body, sliding a thigh between Steve’s legs, and if he moved just so with a slight movement of his hips, a groan, low and guttural, fell from the man’s lips. And the sound of it sent a wave of pleasure straight down to his cock. T.J. moaned into the kiss, reluctantly pulling away with teeth tugging at Steve’s bottom lip _—_ he was such a good kissed _—_ but he was eager for more. So he moved his mouth along the sharp line of his jaw, nipping at his skin before he traveled lower and pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses down the column of his neck. His lips stopped the moment he found the sensitive place where his neck met his shoulder. He sucked hard, grinding his thigh into his crotch, and Steve returned it in kind.

“Ugh _—_ unh _—fuck_ ,” he groaned, curling his fingers into T.J.’s hair to hold him in place.

T.J. grinned against his warm, flushed skin. The cursing combined with the possessiveness in his touch was more than he could bear. He could hardly stand it, and he wanted to be drunk with it. 

Steve sighed, another moan falling from his lips. “Yeah, Buck _—_ s’good.”

T.J. froze. 

It felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped all over him the moment he heard Steve blurt out that name. T.J. knew he shouldn’t be feeling so affected by it, but there was no stopping the completely and utter dread that slowly began to fill the pit in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing or not _—_ it was getting hard to tell with the blood rushing through his ears _—_ but underneath him, Steve was quick to notice that something was wrong and concern immediately permeated his features.  

“Wha _—_ ”

T.J. cut him off. “Wait _—_ time out,” he said, his tone harried and carrying a hint of panic. He was starting to feel a bit light-headed. It seemed as though a switch had turned on in his brain. He started to realize how bad of an idea this was and was now too reluctant to follow through with it. He sobered up immediately, his arousal seeping out of him like water escaping a broken dam. His erection flagged almost instantly. 

He scrambled off of Steve, eyes wide and chest heaving, as the panic began to settle in. He shook his head to try and clear away the thoughts that began to invade it, but there no use in escaping what was buried in his mind. From where he stood, he watched Steve get up from the couch. Even shirtless and probably still aroused, he still did a better job at looking concerned than his own damn brother. 

 _Your soul is still alive._  

“That _—_ That’s not my name,” he whispered, his breath stuttering in his chest. He could feel something tugging the back of his mind. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it left him feeling confused.

_Find him._

Not even a second later, Steve seemed to have realized what he had said, and realization instantly began to flood his features. He hung his head in shame, an apology lingering on the tip of his tongue. He opened his mouth, head held up to look him in the eyes to say the two words on his mind but was cut off once again by T.J.’s trembling voice.

“ _—_ or… I think it isn’t.”

A small divot appeared between Steve’s eyebrows as confusion settled on his face. “What do you mean?” he asked softly. The concern remained in his eyes as he took a cautious step towards him.

T.J. (Bucky _—_ he wasn’t sure anymore) stepped back just as he stepped forward, keeping his gaze locked on anything but Steve. He was determined to hold himself together while he was still in the room. He shook his head quickly, the distress clear on his face.

“Just… I think you should leave. I can’t _—_ ”

He dropped his entire body onto the couch, his head cradled in his shaking hands. He felt tears of frustration begin to well up in his eyes, but he tried his best not to show any more weakness. He was glad that he didn’t sense any hesitation from Steve as he heard the shuffling of clothes and paper. Moments later, he heard the door open and close. Steve had left.

T.J. took his time, basking in the burgeoning silence and feeling sorry for himself. He was drowning in it. He didn’t get up from his seat until what felt like an hour later. He tiredly glanced around the room, ready to move past whatever just happened with Steve without any second thought. But his eyes landed on something that hadn’t been there before _—_ a piece of paper and a discarded pen on the kitchen counter. As soon as he picked it up, he took note of every minute detail that he could tell Steve had drawn out of memory. A face stared back at him, a face that wasn’t his but was. There were a few features that obviously weren’t from this time _—_ the hair for one thing _—_ but it was his face _—_ and Bucky’s _—_ smiling at him from the paper in his quivering hands. Staring at a face that was and was not his made his chest hurt all the same.  

He flipped over the piece of paper and found a note hastily scribbled onto the back of it,

_T.J.—_

_I’m sorry if I stepped over any boundaries, but if you want to talk, I’m here for you. Always._

_Steve_

 A phone number with a New York area code followed the note.

It was obvious that Steve was trying to make a point of using his given nickname, but T.J. refused to think about the fact that Steve carried around a drawing of his dead best friend.

 

.. / .- --

 

_A place where sparks lit up the sky—_

 

He stood by a young man, small and skinny, who had an unconventional kind of beauty that he held onto and cherished, even if he knew the young man did not. They were standing in a train, and though it was sweltering inside the train car, they still stood there with their sides pressed together.

He stared out the window, the city zipping past while the familiarity of the moment settled in his chest and bloomed with something warm. He looked down to find a familiar face staring right back at him, an excited smile crinkling the edge of his eyes and highlighting the dimples on his cheeks. It was Steve, and he looked as beautiful as ever.

 _“You’re taking me to Coney Island?”_ The excitement was clear in those beautiful, baby blues.

The words easily fell from lips that were shaped into a charming grin as the train quickly approached its destination.

_Well, it sure took you long enough to figure it out. It’s your birthday, ain’t it?_

They climbed up the stairs and walked the short distance to the amusement park, following the crowd of people who seemed just as eager to enjoy this gorgeous July day as well. He slung an arm over Steve’s thin shoulders. His pale, blond hair practically sparkled in the daylight, and he tried his best not to stare.

They strolled along the boardwalk, close enough to feel each other but still far enough that it wouldn’t be seen as odd to the many passersby. They were two men spending their day together, best friends trying to keep their affection towards each other a secret, and they were in love.

By god, he was in love with him.

Their day was spent with a whirlwind of activities that played like a montage through his subconscious, as if the two of them were part of a movie he didn’t ever want to stop watching. 

They played some games, their laughter ringing happily in their ears. He won Steve a teddy bear playing one of those sharp-shooter games, proudly showing it off with a bright smile. Steve looked like he was about to protest, but the happy gleam in his eyes and the blush on his pale cheeks told him otherwise.

 _C’mon, Stevie. I won it just for you!_  

_“Alright, you big lug. Give it here.”_

They splurged a bit on hot dogs and a little bit more on cotton candy. Again, Steve protested on the latter, but it was his birthday, after all. He’d always have some money to spare for him, and the kid needed to eat.

 _“Buck…”_  

_It’s your birthday, Steve!_

They rode a few rides. The Cyclone was his favorite, but as he watched Steve stumble over to the trashcan to throw up, it was obvious to him that he wasn’t a fan. He preferred the ferris wheel, and even if he couldn’t see far, Steve loved when he murmured lovingly into his ear the view they saw when the wheel would stop at the top. The privacy up there wasn’t so bad either. They slid a little closer together as their fingers intertwined. 

 _“Tell me about view, Bucky.”_  

 _Of course, babydoll._  

And they even snuck off for a few stolen kisses in one of the photo booths that lined the boardwalk. Their laughter hidden behind coy smiles and sweet kisses. The photo strip was safely tucked away in the pocket of his pants, four pictures in total. One with the two of the smiling. Another where they pulled funny faces and acted like a bunch of fools. The last two were their favorites. They had stared at each other so lovingly, before Steve leaned in to kiss him.   

 _Smile, doll._  

 _“Nah, just... c’mere—”_  

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, the two of them ended their day with a walk along the shore, barefoot with their shoes and socks hanging off the tips of their fingers. They ambled down the beach the same way they had arrived, bodies close but not too close to be suspicious. It was the price they had to pay for being in love. Folks were already starting to gather on the sand, finding the perfect spot with their loved ones, to watch the firework display that they both knew was going to commence in just a few minutes, but he only had eyes on Steve. 

Beautiful, breathtaking Steve. 

They ended their walk below the pier, just as the fireworks began to shoot up into the sky. They knew they were putting themselves at risk, but every other beach goer was too preoccupied with the sparkling colors lighting up the sky to notice the two men as they hid themselves in the darkness underneath the pier.

He held Steve in his arms, his slight figure fitting perfectly against his own. He leaned down, just as Steve stood on his toes, and kissed him. They paid no mind to the fireworks that boomed overhead. They only cared about each other. 

He slowly pulled back, their soft, panting breaths mingling between them. He paused to look at him, feeling the lips on his face curl into a loving smile. His chest filled with warmth as he moved to whisper gently into his ear, his lips barely grazing the shell of it. 

_You’re my best guy, Steve. You gotta know I love you… ‘Til the end of the line._

 

.. / .- --

 

_A gala at D.C.’s finest—_

 

T.J. wasn’t exactly avoiding Steve. It was more along the lines of skillfully stepping out of the way whenever he saw the man. 

He wasn’t really someone who lived off of confrontation. Passive-aggressiveness was his go-to coping mechanism, alongside a few lines of coke and a couple shots of hard liquor. That was why he was so fucking petty at the best of times and had a fuckton of problems that tended to be left unsolved, and Steve Rogers just had to end up being one of those problems.

Tonight’s gala was held in honor of a charity that did something he couldn’t bring himself to care about, and with a quick sweep of the ballroom, he could tell that some of these folks didn’t give a flying shit about it either. It was mostly just for show. Everyone knew that galas were just a sorry excuse to show off and try to oneup each other, and some of them weren’t even trying to be subtle about it.

It was easy to lose himself in the crowd, effortlessly hiding from parents’ watchful eyes and sidestepping possible conversations that he already knew were going to be filled with mindless small talk. He swiped another champagne flute from one of the servers that passed him by, flashing smiles as he went his merry way. Galas weren’t his favorite places to be, but there was a certain decorum he was expected to uphold, for the sake of his family. Even if he hated the fake smiles he gave and that were readily returned, he’d still attend, riding on the back of his family’s money with nothing to lose. 

He took a sip of his champagne, his eyes sweeping through the crowd every now and then. He found a few politicians that were quite familiar, shooting him flirty glances even though he could clearly see their wives standing beside them. Some of these men were such pigs, he scoffed to himself. Although T.J. liked to sleep around, if he across someone he’d like to spend a long-term relationship with, he knew how to be faithful. But sometimes, even those kind of relationships backfired on him. 

He shook his head and tore himself away from those thoughts before they could overwhelm him with the ease of long practice.

“I remember you telling me that you weren’t supposed to be drinking.” 

T.J. started slightly at the voice in his left ear, almost gagging on his drink, and turned on instinct to find Steve standing next to him. He was dressed to the nines in an impeccably fitting suit that hugged his frame in all the right places, and to add the fucking cherry on top _—_ Steve was smiling that dumb smile of his as though nothing awkward had happened between them. 

Steve looked incredibly put together, while T.J., on the other hand, felt like he was dying inside. He silently wished for a hole to open up underneath him and swallow him whole. 

His eyes immediately snapped to the glass in his hand, already halfway done. He’d been sipping at his champagne with an absent mind in hopes to get him through the night, but he wasn’t going to tell Steve that this was his third glass and that he was already feeling a gentle buzz in his head. No, he was going to to tell him the exact opposite because he was an idiot. “Oh, this _—_ this isn’t mine. I was, um, holding it for a friend. Yeah, a friend.” 

He didn’t sound so sure of himself, and Steve could tell. He wasn’t sure why, but every time he was around Steve, he morphed into someone he couldn’t even recognize. Someone that got easily tongue-tied and a bit stupid in the head. He was usually wasn’t like this when it came to cute guys. He was more suave and charming, but there was just something about Steve that made him a little dumb. 

It was clear that Steve wasn’t buying his stupid excuse. He only raised an unimpressed eyebrow in response. “You think you could convince your friend to head outside for a quick chat?” he asked, gesturing towards the French doors that led to a quaint balcony with a subtle tip of his head. “If so, tell them to meet me there in five minutes.” 

Without waiting for his answer, Steve disappeared back into the crowd, and T.J. was left staring blankly at the space he had previously occupied. 

The next five minutes were spent in total agony. He walked around aimlessly, still a bit dumbfounded by the way Steve had taken charge just then. It was kind of hot, he had to admit. His internal timer slowly ticked down, the seconds trickling by far more slowly than he would have liked. He could feel the anxiety churning in his stomach. He downed the rest of his champagne, setting it down on a nearby platter, and clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking too much. 

He tried his best to keep his mind preoccupied with thoughts that didn’t revolve around Steve, but it proved difficult when thoughts of the blond man in question began to invade his brain. Just perfect.   

Once those five minutes were up, T.J. weaved his way through the crowd, flashing smiles towards the many important people he walked by as he slinked away from any chance of conversation. He wasn’t in the mood to strike up tactless conversations that only were started out of politeness and civility and not out of genuine kindness and curiosity.

Stepping up to those balcony doors, he could see that Steve was already outside, waiting for him, the line of his shoulders highlighted by the moonlight that shined overhead. And that was when the panic started to settle in and increase tenfold. His chest tightened with anxiety as his cheeks burned red with shame. He wasn’t ready for this, far from it, actually. So he did what he had always done best _—_ he turned away and ran. 

He was so damn pathetic.

 

.. / .- --

 

_A D.C. evening—_

 

T.J. hadn’t bothered to find his parents or Dougie and Anne to tell them his plans to leave as he made a quick beeline towards the exit, bypassing the important men and women that had been invited to this useless get-together. A fake smile made residence where his mouth was, shining bright for everyone in the room to see. 

He stepped outside, now free of the stifling warm air that he had been trapped in for the better part of three hours. He could finally breathe, and that was what he did. He stumbled to a nearby wall, and, as he leaned against it, he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and began to count down from ten. Now that his panic had edged off a bit, he pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against, and with no particular place in mind, he let his feet lead the way as he turned left from the venue’s entrance. 

The streets were silent, save for the few car horns that honked in the distance. But he welcomed the silence with open arms. It was a nice moment of solitude that he appreciated greatly. Being part of a family fully submersed into the world of politics, it was hard for him to find any time to be alone. 

T.J. kept on walking with his hands shoved deep into his pockets to stave off the evening chill.  He let his mind drift off into somewhere beyond his own plane of existence, but he eventually found himself thinking about Steve _—again_ . It seemed like he was never going to stop thinking about him, as much as he tried not to.

He was ashamed of himself for running. He was pathetic, a goddamn coward. He had so many things to say to Steve, but his fears always held him back from spilling the truth. He should have told him about the dreams, the ones that plagued his subconscious and reality, that didn’t quite feel like dreams but more like memories. He should have mentioned the people he had seen and had known once before and the voices that filled his head in a sweet but scary symphony. T.J. had so many chances to tell him, but every single time, those chances were completely wasted because of this deep-set fear that he just couldn’t shake. 

And Steve… Steve was being so nice about it, and that only added more to the frustrations he was currently feeling. He wanted to be angry at him. He wanted to scream and yell and tell him exactly how he felt, but anger was an emotion he could never associate with sweet Steve Rogers, and it just wasn’t fair. He was stuck in a battle with himself, and it was clear that neither side was going to win. 

It didn’t take him too long before he eventually came across a bar, the neon lights of the signage shining proudly and brightly before him. The more logical part of his brain was screaming at him to stay sober, but he ignored it and stepped inside, the strong urge to drink his sorrows away drawing him in.

The aroma of smoke and liquor hit him first the moment he walked through the door. A seedy bar like this one wasn’t usually his type of scene. He preferred clubs with lots of dancing, warm bodies, and booze, but this place would just have to do. It reminded him of something _—_ somewhere long ago where visions were hazy with smoke and blondes with blue eyes were gorgeous in the dim light. He quickly got rid of that thought with a sharp shake of his head.

He walked across the sticky floor over to the bar and sat himself down in one of the empty stools, his eyes giving the space a quick sweep. There weren’t that many people frequenting this bar, save for the small party of who he presumed were college students and the few patrons that nursed their drinks in silence.

“What can I get you, pal?” the bartender asked upon his arrival. He was drying off a glass with a rag. T.J. felt like he had just walked into a scene taken right out a movie, but he wasn’t up for any soul-searching and wisdom right now. All he wanted was a drink. 

He gave the bottles behind the bartender a brief scan, before sliding his gaze back over to the man in front of him. “Redbreast neat,” he answered simply as he crossed his arms on the counter and leaned forward. Once the bartender poured him two fingers of the dark liquor, he added in a gruff tone, “Leave the bottle.” He knocked back the drink with barely a wince and grabbed the bottle in front of him to pour himself another. It was going to be that kind of night.

Swallow after quick swallow, T.J. soon began to feel the effects of the alcohol that began to poison his bloodstream. Months of trying to stay sober _—_ and failing to do so _—_ made being drunk feel even more potent than usual. His skin felt warm, thrumming with energy, and his head felt a little fuzzy. It wasn’t long before he was drunk enough to break the dam that had been holding all his secrets from spilling out into the open, letting them out for anyone who cared enough to listen.

He fumbled through his pockets for his phone, the sleek device almost slipping out of his hands as he tugged it out from his back pocket. It buzzed wildly in his hand every time he mistyped his password. It took him a few tries, but he eventually got his phone to unlock. Once he gave his eyes some time to adjust to the bright light of his screen, he scrolled through his apps with quick swipes to the right.

For a brief moment, he felt an ounce of regret when he remembered that he had deleted Grindr a while ago, so finding any cute guys in his area for a quick fuck was out of the question. There didn’t seem to be anything too exciting going on either Facebook or Twitter. He fiddled around with a few more apps, easily getting bored with the lot of them before he found himself scrolling through his contacts. And one name stood out above the rest.

Steve _fucking_ Rogers.

He let his thumb hover over the name of the man he had been avoiding and hesitated.

He vaguely remembered saving his number some time ago, but he forgot the exact reason why he had his number in the first place. Though, if he had been sober, he wouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of calling him at all, but here he was, in a sleazy bar, debating whether or not to do just that.

“Fuck it.” He pressed his thumb down onto the screen and lifted his phone to his ear, letting it dial up the number. It rang three times before Steve picked up. 

“ _Captain Rogers._ ” 

T.J. snorted. “Captain Rogers,” he parroted in a mocking tone. “You sound like a pretentious prick when you answer your phone like that, you know?” He hiccuped once and swallowed another mouthful of whiskey, welcoming the burn like he deserved it. 

The other end of the line went silent. 

“I swear I didn’t butt-dial you,” T.J. said, a chuckle falling from his lips with ease. 

“. _..T.J.?_ ” The other man’s deep voice was heavy with incredulity. Wherever Steve was, it sounded quiet. Maybe he was still outside on that balcony. He tried his best not to feel guilty about that. He didn’t want to think about Steve and how he just left him there without even saying goodbye. 

He giggled drunkenly instead of feeling sorry for himself. “Whoa… how’d you know that?” 

“ _I know the sound of your voi—Wait, hold on. Are you… Are you drunk?_ ” 

“Maaaaybe,” he answered with a dazed grin that was a clear indication of how far gone he was. 

He heard a sharp intake of breath coming from Steve. “ _Jesus. Okay. Where are you? I’ll take you home._ ” 

T.J. let out another hiccup, his grin sloppily plastered on his face. “Tha’s a _—_ Tha’s a real generous offer, but you don’t gotta, Stevie.” His slurring words took on a kind of vernacular from a time long ago, ringing with familiarity as they fell from his loose lips. The shape of the syllables and vowels on his heavy tongue left him with a vague sense of nostalgia that settled like a dense stone in the pit of his stomach. 

“‘M fine _—_ can get by on my own.” He waved a dismissive hand through the hazy air, the knowledge of Steve not being able to see the motion far from the forefront of his mind. He leaned heavily against the countertop, the effects of the alcohol already hitting him so hard.

Another few beats of silence followed, but the sound of breathing on the other end of the line told him that Steve was still there, listening to him. 

“Stevie? Y’still there?” 

“ _Yeah_.” His voice sounded like a hushed breath in his ear, all choked up and quiet. He almost hadn’t heard him.  “ _Yeah, I’m still here._ ” There was another moment of silence that took over, making T.J. think that Steve had hung up on him, but that wasn’t the case. He counted a total of thirteen seconds before Steve spoke up and broke the silence between them.

“ _T.J.—_ ” Steve paused. On his end of the line, T.J. could practically feel the reluctance rolling off of his voice in waves. He tried not to think too much about that. It would only make his head hurt even more. “ _Let me take you home_ ,” he offered once more. “ _Where are you?_ ” 

Without a moment’s hesitation, T.J. rattled off the name of the bar that had been seared into his mind by the neon lights displayed at the bar’s entrance. He didn’t think twice about telling Steve where he was, despite the fact that the more logical part of him, the sober part of him that had been overshadowed by drunken stupidity, didn’t want Steve to see him like this, all drunk and sloppy and feeling sorry for himself. 

“ _You’re not that far_ ,” he heard Steve say, “ _Give me ten minutes. I’ll be there._ ”  

 

.. / .- --

 

_Outside—_

 

T.J. stumbled out of the bar once he settled his tab. The streets were empty, so it was now just him on his lonesome amidst the chilly nighttime air. His suit jacket provided him some warmth, but its protection from the cold air only lasted for so long, but the low temperature did help with sobering him up a bit.

He waited outside on the curb, huddled over himself in hopes to keep himself warm. It was just the right temperature to be able to see his own breath in the air before him. He loosely resembled the shape of an apostrophe with his knees close to his chest and his hands tucked underneath his armpits for some semblance of warmth. His pale, sunken cheeks were pink from the cold, and his hair fell limp across his forehead, the strands too damp from the condensation in the air to stay in their gelled hold. He looked just as he felt. Pathetic. It was fitting for his current situation.

Some time passed before he heard the low rumble of a car’s engine in the distance. He looked up just as the vehicle came to a slow stop a few feet away from him, momentarily blinded by the bright headlights that shone directly into his face. Once his eyes had re-adjusted, he could see Steve sitting behind the wheel. T.J. couldn’t read the expression on his face, but he was able to pick out the mixture of disappointment and worry in his eyes. He hated it. 

He pushed himself off the ground with a grunt and hobbled his way to the passenger’s side, more than aware of the scrutiny he had been put under from man behind the wheel, but Steve _—_ ever the gentlemen _—_ still came running out from the driver’s side to help him into the car. Moments like these made it hard for him to actually go and hate him.

He had sobered enough to make it possible for him not to fall flat on his face as Steve helped him into the passenger’s seat and buckled him in, which only proved to make him feel even more sorry for himself.

“What happened to the bike?” The question slipped out of his mouth before he could think twice to stop it.

He noticed the smile that cracked through the serious expression on Steve’s face but found that he had nothing to say about it. “Had to trade in my bike for a car, instead,” he answered with a glance to T.J.’s face to find the other man staring right back at him. “More professional, y’know?”

“Shame,” T.J. uttered simply in return. They held each other’s gazes for a few moments _—_ glassy gray eyes melding with a sea of blue _—_ the silence between them palpable since they were the only ones out on the street, but the moment was gone the instant Steve cleared his throat and turned away to circle around the car and climb into the driver’s side. Shame.

The view outside the window blurred into a muddled mess as Steve put the car into drive. It made him feel dizzy, so he closed his eyes, letting the silence drone on as the other man drove. T.J. wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when he opened his eyes, the car had stopped and Steve was in front of him, helping him out of the car. He must have passed out some time during the ride to wherever Steve had taken him. 

“You’re not g’na murder me, are you?” he asked as they walked towards an unfamiliar building _—_ probably Steve’s apartment, then. He felt like a newborn foal struggling to stay upright with every shaky step on the pavement.

He heard a low chuckle as large, strong hands guided him through the door and up a few flights of steps. “Now, why would I do that?”

The trek to Steve’s apartment felt longer than it should have been, and before he knew it, he was sitting on a comfy couch and Steve was offering him a glass of water

“Drink this. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

He drained the glass and everything tipped sideways as he laid down on his side. He felt a warm, fluffy blanket being draped over his body, but his mind was too far away to register the anything else beyond that.

“Sweet dreams, T.J.”

He didn’t dream that night.

 

.. / .- --

 

_Steve’s apartment—_

 

The painful, rhythmic pulse in the forefront of his skull was the first thing he noticed when he woke up the next morning, and when he reluctantly opened his eyes and scanned his surroundings, the second thing he noticed was the fact that he wasn’t even in his own apartment. Well, shit.

“Jesus, _fuck_ ,” T.J. muttered regretfully. He rubbed his hands over his face and let out a small groan of pain. His mouth felt like its own desert, paper dry and filled with sand, and his head pounded with a vicious ache. Overall, he felt like shit. 

“Oh, you’re up.”

He froze. He knew that voice. Oh, fuck.

T.J. dropped his hands from his face to find Steve standing there, looking so soft and relaxed in a t-shirt and sweats. He had a bottle of aspirin in one hand and a glass of water in the other. And if he wasn’t currently nursing the worst headache ever, he definitely wouldn’t have minded waking up to this view every day.

As he continued to sit there in stunned silence, Steve stepped forward to set the two items on the coffee table before him. “I was gonna leave this here for you, but since you’re up…” He shrugged his stupidly broad shoulders. “I was just about to start on breakfast. Eggs and bacon sound alright to you?” 

His tired mind was still trying to piece together whatever the hell happened the night before, so he did nothing but give him a slow nod in response. Steve _—_ who was way too chipper in the mornings to even be legal _—_ just smiled, all bright and happy, as if he was so glad to see him. Christ on a bike, this man was going to be the death of him. 

“Great, I’ll be right back.”

What… What the _fuck_ just happened?

It took him about a minute after Steve left the room before he actually started to move. He grabbed the bottle of aspirin first, shook out a couple of pills, and downed them with a few desperate gulps of water. He stood up slowly, the headrush dizzying him for a moment or two, before his brain started to cooperate with him. He took careful steps towards the kitchen, the sizzle of oil and Steve’s puttering about the small space almost therapeutic in sound. The smells that wafted into his space brought him closer, enticing him further into the kitchen until he was sitting at the table with a heaping plate of delicious, fatty breakfast foods and a steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee placed in front of him. 

Steve was just too fucking nice to him. He had already decided that a long time ago, but this just took the whole damn cake. The domesticity of it all almost made him want to gag. Though, he wasn’t sure if that was the hangover or the weird infatuation he had on Steve talking. 

“Eat up,” Steve said as he sat down with his own plate and mug. T.J. was so tempted to get up and leave, the daunting inevitability of the conversation he tried his best to avoid scaring him away, but his stomach gurgled with hunger. With the combination of food, coffee, and that stupid smile on Steve’s face, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave. 

The two of them ate in silence, the soft clink of utensils scraping against their plates being the only sounds they made for awhile. It wasn’t until they were done with their meals, sitting there in that span of awkward brevity and sipping their now-warm coffee, that the silence was finally broken. 

“What’s going on, T.J.?”

That was the question of the century, wasn’t it? If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, either, but a chance to finally talk about it might just help him begin to understand, or at least, fathom what was happening. It’d be nice to have a point of view that wasn’t his grandmother’s or his brother’s. 

T.J. dragged his gaze up to meet Steve’s eyes for a moment, feeling conflicted. There was a part of him that wanted to keep Steve in the dark _—_ he didn’t want to burden him with his problems _—_ and yet, there was still that part of him that wanted to tell him everything and spill his secrets out into the open. Everything from the vivid dreams to the warped reality caused by them. He was turning into a person that he was not, but there might be a chance that he actually was this person. The person in his dreams _—_ Bucky Barnes. It was just the benefit of the doubt keeping him from believing that it was true. He couldn’t just step into the role of Steve’s best friend and continue the life that came to an abrupt halt many years ago _—_ or, could he? 

It all came down to his answer. 

Those blue eyes staring back at him held a kind of depth that spanned decades, so soft and so tempting to just dive right in and drown in them. Steve was someone he could trust. It was all in the eyes.

He opened his mouth, a shaky breath wheezing past chapped lips.

_Your soul is still alive._

He blinked and saw Steve, but it wasn’t him. It was him, but smaller. Frail and beautiful with his soft, downy hair and vivid, blue eyes. They were in an apartment, but everything was much older, more sparse, blanketed with warm tones of a faded memory. The warped reality he feared teased his mind with memories of the past. He blinked again, and the vision was gone.

 _Find him._  

“I’m not sure I know where to start.” He chuckled, low, brief, and self-deprecating. 

“How about the beginning?” Steve suggested with lips curled into a small, encouraging smile. 

T.J. swallowed the lump that lodged itself in his throat and nodded. “Um… Okay. Yeah, I think I can do that.” He steeled himself with a deep breath, his chest tight from the anxiety that clawed at his pounding heart. “Have you ever felt like you’re living a life that isn’t yours?” He paused and let the question hang in the air, his heartbeat practically loud enough to be heard amidst the silence. 

“T.J., you don’t have to tell me.” 

He shook his head with an air of finality. If he didn’t do this now, when else would he get the chance?

“No, no… I want to. It’s just… I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”  He ran trembling fingers through unruly hair, his nerves alight with anxiety. “Don’t… don’t think I’m crazy, because I’m _not_.” T.J. opened his eyes and found Steve staring at him with unbridled concern and understanding. He returned it with his own stare filled with panic and desperation.

“Okay.”

It was a simple answer, but there wasn’t any trace of pity or incredulity behind that single word. It spoke volumes. Steve understood him on every level, even if he didn’t have to explicitly say it.

He took another deep breath, trying to bide his time as he worked through the jumbled mess that was his mind. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many confessions he wanted to lay out in the open, but he was struggling to get the words out. 

“Hey... take all the time you need. There’s no rush,” Steve said, as if he knew exactly what he was thinking, and reached out to place a hand on top of T.J.’s. The motion left his heart stuttering in his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to pull away. 

T.J. nodded slowly, the words slowly trickling out from reluctant lips. “Ever since my… my _accident_ back in December, I’ve been having these dreams, and like, I didn’t really think too much of them. People who do stupid shit to their bodies tend to get the weirdest dreams, so I thought it was just the drugs and alcohol talking, but… the thing is… They don’t feel like dreams. They feel like… like, memories, but they aren’t mine because I don’t even remember having them.” He wrapped his hands tightly around the warm mug to keep them from shaking too much, but the tremble easily resonated throughout his entire body. 

“The dreams _—_ well, I guess, the memories… They… They’ve been showing me a life that isn’t mine. Like, little snippets from a documentary on the History Channel that’s been made just for me. I’d keep seeing these faces and hearing all these voices that I didn’t recognize.” And if he closed his eyes, he could hear the sweet echo of his family’s voice, of his best guy’s, from a long time ago, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“After the second time I landed myself in the hospital, the dreams… I don’t know… they got more vivid. More… real. And it wasn’t long before I started to actually think that these memories were mine. I started freaking my own family out because I started acting like I was from 1930s Brooklyn. I was born in our nation’s fucking capital, and you get this kid complaining about an influx of prices and buying suspenders of the internet. I thought they were going to put in a mental institute ‘cause of all the bullshit I was spitting out.”

He chuckled. The sound was weak and out of place, exactly how he felt right now.

“They didn’t, by the way. Else I wouldn’t be here talking to you right now.” He caught Steve’s eyes with a quick glance and tried to smile, but it just looked like a grimace. He looked back down at his now lukewarm coffee and cleared his throat. Right, not the best time for a joke.

“And you know how some recurring dreams have similar ideas, right? Well, mine seemed to revolve around this man, and he wore red, white, and blue. I wasn’t sure who he was in the beginning, but… I’m sure you could figure out who it was.” His voice was quiet. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to look up and see Steve’s reaction. Of all the times that could have unleashed the monster he kept hidden under all that unwarranted compassion, this could have been his last straw. But of course, the man just had to keep on surprising him. 

It took Steve a total of five seconds for the hypothetical light bulb to light up above his head. His eyes (so blue he could just drown in them) widened slightly with recognition, and maybe even a little alarm. God, his cheeks turned so pink. “You… You dreamed about me?”

“Oh, god. No! It’s not what you think! I didn’t _—_ I couldn’t _—_ oh, my god!” T.J. sputtered like a buffoon. Now, his cheeks were just as pink as Steve’s. He felt so out of character, stuttering like this. Usually, he’d play along and crack something suave and dirty enough to make _Steve_ blush, but he was just all over the place at the moment. His vulnerable position just made him a better target. “Jesus Christ, Steve, don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not laughing!” Steve protested, playing the innocent card like a fiddle, but the way his face was schooled into something serious made it seem like the guy was trying really hard not to laugh.

T.J. narrowed his eyes at him, not believing his ruse for even a second. He could see the corners of his lips twitch. He stood up, clearly frustrated with himself. He took his mug with him and dumped its contents into the sink. He lingered there, hands on the edge of the sink, and head hanging between his slumped shoulders. He heaved out a sigh, taking a moment to collect himself, before he turned around to lean back against the counter with arms crossed over his chest. 

“I’m trying to be serious here. Can we be serious for, like, five minutes? Please?” His voice cracked, but he easily played it off like he didn’t.

Steve stared right back at him, holding his gaze before letting it drop to the tabletop. He cleared his throat with his pink cheeks and all. “Right. Sorry. Go ahead.”

He took another deep breath, hoping to keep himself calm all the way through. “Okay, for the record, I did dream about you. Not in _that_ sense, but in the sense that these dreams… they were telling me that you were someone important. That… you were someone I had to remember, and I did remember you. Those dreams never tried to make me forget. You were just in my subconscious all the fucking time, and all my dreams had you in the middle of it. I just couldn’t get you outta my head.

“At first, I didn’t understand any of it. I thought that I was just dreaming about you because of the drugs still left in my system. But that… That would’ve been too fucking easy. All these dreams and mind games couldn’t have been happening because I was just tripping so fucking hard on whatever drugs I pumped into my body. There was something else that I was missing, I just knew it.

“I knew I was dreaming about a life that wasn’t mine, I knew that right from the beginning. It wasn’t hard to tell. With all that old-timey talk and the war happening, of course. It just took me longer to realize that… the life I was dreaming about was…” His eyebrows furrowed slightly as the realization dawned on him right at that moment. “…yours.” 

“Mine?” Steve echoed his confusion. For months, he believed he was dreaming about Bucky Barnes’ life, but that wasn’t the case at all. No wonder he didn’t dream anything about Bucky’s life other than when Steve was in it. There had to be a reason why he had been following around this smart-mouthed, blondeblond punk, and this was it.  

“Yes, yours! But… But I wasn’t seeing it through your eyes. No... I was seeing it through your… Bucky Barnes. It all makes sense now. The most vivid dreams I had were all about you. Coney Island, the bar, factory, the mountain, the train I saw all of that… because of… you…” His voice trailed off, and for a second, he didn’t find himself in Steve’s apartment. Every single blink gave way to a different view. 

They were shrouded in laughter, sun, sand, and a lit up sky. 

Surrounded in a haze that reeked of a never-ending flow of beer.

Fenced in by flames, walls of smoke, and self-destruction.

_T.J…._

Enveloped in a pocket of snow that swirled around them, so cold and so biting.

_T.J…._

Enclosed in metal that creaked dangerously towards his death.

_Your soul is still alive._

“...Bucky?”

_Find him._

He blinked and everything else fell away. The visions disappeared, and he was back in Steve’s apartment, his kitchen, shaking like a leaf. And Steve _—_ beautiful, breathtaking Steve _—_ was standing in front of him, his blue eyes glassy with worry and concern.

Like the sun breaking over the horizon, a smile stretched slowly across his face. 

“Steve.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

 

.. / .- --

 

_Epilogue_

 

.. / .- --

 

_Seventy years too late—_

 

_I found him._

He wasn’t exactly sure where he stood in time. A part of him, persistent and longing, tugged him towards a life in the past, while the other part stayed grounded in the present. Both sides had persisted in a long game of tug-of-war that ended almost seventy years too late. But the way he saw it, these two parts of him made him whole. He was Bucky, T.J., and someone in between, binding the past and the present together so that he could have a chance at a future with his long-lost soul. 

He was beginning to understand what had happened to him, the puzzle pieces slowly coming together to create the bigger picture as time went on. There had been a word for it. Reincarnation, Google told him when he first began to question those vivid dreams that raided his subconscious. He didn’t believe it at first, he couldn’t, but after everything he had been through, it was the only reason that made sense. 

The conclusion he came to, with help from countless hours on the internet and reading books in the library, went something like this: James Buchanan Barnes died in 1945 and was rebirthed into this life as Thomas James Hammond in 1982. 

A span of thirty-seven years had passed before life and death collided into one, and it took almost seventy to understand the reason why he had been reincarnated in the first place. 

The dreams had offered him a chance to glimpse into his past life in preparation for the moment he achieved his ultimate goal _._ The voice in his head, in that sea of white infinite, had to told him to find his soul, that it was still alive. That was a mission for both the late Bucky Barnes and the rebirthed T.J. Hammond. He thought for the longest time that the voice meant he would fulfill a long path of self-discovery, that his own soul was the one that needed to be found. But he was wrong.

He had waited seventy years to find his soul, and it was a long journey filled with trials and errors. Though, in a sense, he did stumble through a path of self-discovery. He just never thought he’d find himself, his soul, in Steve. Steve was the other half of his soul, and he found it, just like the voice in his head said he would.

He was pulled away from his thoughts when he felt Steve shift next to him, a soft hum falling from sweet, red-bitten lips, swollen from hours of kissing. A pair of blue eyes dulled with sleep stared at him, and he returned the look with a fond smile, heavy with love and adoration. He pressed a soft kiss to Steve’s shoulder in reassurance, the line of his bare back almost golden under the soft glow of lamplight at his bedside. 

“Buck? Y’okay?”

“It’s nothing, doll. Just go back to sleep,” he whispered and dropped another kiss to his skin, warm and salty against his lips. He watched with drowsy eyes as the other half of his soul rolled over onto his back and returned to his slumber. His chest rose and fell with every breath he took, a gentle lull that left the blonde looking almost angelic. He was mesmerized, and nothing stopped him as he shifted closer and placed his ear over Steve’s chest. He remained there even as he closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sweet lullaby that was the sound of his heartbeat. 

And if a name from long ago still fell from Steve’s mouth every now and then, he wouldn't make a big deal out of it. It would take some time to get used to, but he still wouldn't mind. The name was a part of him now. It was evidence of the past joining with the present as he stepped forward into the future. 

Steve was his soul. His past, present, and future. And he was Steve’s.

He was seventy years too late, but he’d live through a million lifetimes if that meant he’d be with him in the end.

 

.. / .- --

 

_Some distant dream—_

 

_“Where are we going?”_

_The future._

 

.. / .- --

 

_I am James Buchanan Barnes_

_I am Thomas James Hammond._

_I am both and someone in between._

I am

 

.. / .- --

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> if you didn't notice ".. / .- --" is morse code for "i am" (see what i did there, recurring themes WOW)
> 
> here's the [post](http://dodqerevans.tumblr.com/post/124301506918/au-where-tj-hammond-is-the-reincarnation-of-bucky) that started it all and [here's](http://dodqerevans.tumblr.com/post/124461969363/au-where-tj-hammond-is-the-reincarnation-of-bucky) the accompanying edit i made two years ago lmao
> 
> if you wanna yell at me, hit me up on [tumblr](http://dodqerevans.tumblr.com) :)


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